


Magnets

by irisbleufic



Category: Breaking Bad
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Choices, Complicated Relationships, Crimes & Criminals, Eventual Happy Ending, First Time, Fugitives, Injury, M/M, Major Character Injury, Medical, Medical Procedures, Mentions of Cancer, Multi, Not Canon Compliant, Post-Canon, Post-Canon Fix-It, Post-Episode: s05e16 Felina, Revenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-29
Updated: 2016-09-12
Packaged: 2018-05-23 21:53:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 50,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6131326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>I'm A-negative, you're A-positive.  End of story.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Magnets

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Milarca](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Milarca/gifts).



> This goes out to BrBa Anon and also to Milarca (who's been the most patient beta-reader on this that I could ask for). This is another one of those this-is-my-first-and-probably-only-time-writing-this type deals; I watched all five seasons of this show for the first time over about nine days, and that was three weeks ago now. This is in the spirit of the Wild-Card Endings pieces I used to do when LJ was my fic-posting platform. Basic set-up goes  **a)** painful ending of some book or film or television series persistently nags at me,  **b)** I spend days or a week or even years subconsciously processing how to ameliorate it, and  **c)** sometimes I find the crack in the narrative wall and devise an escape route. For some reason, I don't believe the Feds would've stormed in that quickly after the shoot-out at the end of  _Felina_ , especially not if that compound is somewhat isolated. For our purposes, assume nobody's on the way. Also assume I'm doing this to punish Walt to a degree, because, oh, I  _am_. Jesse is the viewpoint character here; this is deliberate. Walt was the dominant canon POV, so I refuse to give him further opportunity.
> 
> There is an [8tracks.com playlist](http://8tracks.com/irisbleufic/breaking-bad-keep-your-picture-clear) for this series.

Jesse's driving so fast in Todd's fucking beat-up El Camino that, when his heart stutters and he hits the breaks about ten seconds after smashing through the compound's front gate, he fishtails and ends up screeching off the shoulder into some scrub-brush. His pulse is sky-high, threatening to burst through the top of his skull and rip right through the roof of the car like it's tinfoil.

He can't breathe. He needs air, needs it so desperately he can't see straight, so he fumbles the driver's side door open and spends the _next_ ten seconds swiveled sideways in the seat with his aching feet and ankles braced against the sage-flecked ground. Head between his knees, sobbing for breath, eyes down. He's gripping his shins so tightly he wants to scream.

"That'd solve nothing, huh," Jesse mumbles at one of those huge, dopey desert millipedes as it ambles by the toes of his sneakers. "Yeah, man," he hiccups, letting one shaky hand drop down to brush across the smooth, meandering line of its back. Goddamn things never have the sense to run.

 _Unlike me_ , he thinks, his laughter as startling as it had been within the confines of the car. Yeah, he'd run like nobody's business, and look where that had gotten him. He should've remembered the security cameras. Douchebags like Gus and Jack are too smart not to have them.

Jesse launches himself forward, staggering to his feet, missing the unperturbed millipede by inches. He's got his hands in his hair now, desperate for something, _anything_ to cover his head, but his scalp itches. Those motherfuckers had given him some different clothes to wear, sure, and had even started to let him shower once or twice a week under armed guard in the clubhouse around the time he'd successfully convinced Todd that being filthy would compromise the quality of his cook.

He watches the millipede vanish back into the low undergrowth, his lungs constricting again, all progress obliterated. He should be getting in touch with Saul's vacuum-repair guy, getting the fuck out of dodge, but how the hell's he going to pay for _that_? Oh, yeah: the sixty or seventy-odd million he's left in dozens of backpacks, duffel bags, suitcases, and oil drums out in one of the storage sheds. Jack had been talking complete shit; if Mr. White was even a _little_ longer for this world, then he wasn't going to have any trouble finding it.

_What if he's not dying from the gunshot, moron? What if the bullet went straight through and he's just, like, bleeding a lot and shit? Did you actually think you could just leave him behind?_

Jesse swears and kicks at the nearest tumbleweed, almost throwing himself off-balance. He dives back into the car, scrabbling at the baffling array of crap he finds piled in the passenger seat. McDonald's and Chick-fil-A wrappers, even some napkins and sauce packets left from when Pollos Hermanos was still a thing. His bitten-to-the-quick fingernails skid across something smooth like the millipede's shell, only broader and the opposite of wiggly. He closes his fist around it, blinking.

"Jackpot!" he shouts, throat ragged, _raw_ , instantly recognizing the spare phone as one of the disposable ones they'd all been in the habit of carrying during the glory days of Vamonos Pest. He flips it open, frantic, jamming his thumb against the power button, scarcely breathing as the screen's glow flares to life. He feels dizzy again, still needs air, but now all he can think is that he's never been so glad he memorized all the important numbers and shit post-clusterfuck in Mexico. _Applied_ himself. Turns out there's no motivation like almost dying in increasingly terrible ways.

Jesse doesn't think too hard about the one he dials first. It's a gamble, and it could get him killed.

(Or save someone's life, someone he doesn't owe _squat_. But he's not the bad guy anymore.)

"Hey, Dr. Goodman? It's Jesse Pinkman. You still got those bags of blood? And, like, maybe some chemo drugs I saw you had stockpiled for Mr. White? Adriamycin and Cytoxan? Anyway, I saw some of the Red Devil at _least_ in your fridge; they gave my aunt that shit. Listen, I know Gus is dead and everything, but I'm sitting on a _whole_ lotta green, and I'm willing to let you name your price for a ride in your magic undercover ambulance-truck deal as long as you don't ask too many questions. Crossroads Motel, Room 211. Like, as soon as you can. With my luck, you'll get there after the bastard stops breathing, and, believe me, I don't wanna give him the pleasure."

 _Please be this side of the border_ , Jesse thought. _You gotta check your voicemail. Please._

He's shaking by the time he hangs up. He can't jump back behind the wheel, not quite yet. He's thinking more clearly than he's ever thought in his life, like, _shit_ , even after everything Walter _fucking_ White's done to him, he's still on autopilot with figuring out some way to get them the hell out of this. But, no, it's also about Mr. White not getting his way. Dude _wants_ to die, so Jesse's not going to let him. He sneers, huffs out a lungful of nighttime frost, _yearns_ for a cigarette as he dials the next number. She better not have changed it.

"I don't recognize your fuckin' digits," Wendy rasps, tinny on the line. "Who the hell's this?"

"You know who this is," Jesse says, struggling to keep his voice under control. "Hey, like, sorry to scare you and shit, but I got like ten grand here with your fuckin' name on it if you just do what the fuck I tell you, okay?" He sucks in a breath, still dizzy. "Yo, are you payin' attention to me?"

"Twenty grand," counters Wendy, and he hears her drag shakily on a cigarette or something.

"Fine, twenty grand. Fuck, I'll give you thirty if you promise not to ask me shit, because I'm gonna hang up as soon as I say this next part," Jesse tells her, steeling his nerves as he slides back behind the wheel, pulling the driver's side door shut behind him. "Make sure the bedclothes are clean, I mean, like, pristine, do you know what that means? Squeaky fucking clean. Get that shit from reception if you can do it without making anybody suspicious, and change the bed yourself. Wendy, are you still with me?"

"Yeah," she answers petulantly, and she doesn't sound high, so that's progress. "What else?"

"Then, I want you to walk over to one of those Walgreens, maybe both of 'em if you have to, and get a shower curtain to put down over the sheets, plus some boxers and socks and stuff—enough for a couple of guys for, like, a few days or a week. Me and somebody about twice my size, don't gotta tell you who. Jeans and shirts. Gonna need those, too. He's a 34 waist or something? Maybe 32 by now. Whatever's cheap."

"Gotta go shopping for you and your boyfriend, got it," Wendy drawls, taking another insolent, leisurely drag on her cigarette, and, _Jesus_ , does Jesse want a smoke. "Are you gonna hang up or what?"

Before he can spit obscenities back, he kills the call. He turns the key in the ignition, instinctively relieved when the engine revs without protest. He dials the third and final number, shivering.

Skinny Pete doesn't pick up for five or six rings. "Hey, man! Dunno who the shit this is, but—"

"You _know_ who the shit this is!" Jesse snaps, tired of repeating himself. "And the last thing I need is you tweaking out on me right now, so shut your huge yap and listen up."

"Jesse," Pete breathes. "Holy _shit_. It's you. Okay. _Yeah_ , man. Listening."

"I'm gonna text you some, like, super specific directions in a couple of minutes," Jesse explains, fingers of his free hand fidgeting on the wheel, flicking imaginary ash. "To refresh your memory."

Pete lets loose with some nervous laughter, but he sounds sober. "Dude, you're not gonna _believe_ what's happened to me and Badge in like the last twenty-four hours, it's the absolute craziest shit, _like_ —"

"Don't wanna know, but I can probably take a guess," Jesse gritted out, cutting him off. "This is absolutely what it fucking sounds like. When you get to the place I want you to go, you're gonna case the shed farthest back against the left-hand perimeter. There's tons of luggage and shit. If it looks like a bag or a suitcase or somethin' you'd travel with, grab it. You gotta grab as much as you can, okay?" he repeated, reining in his desperation. "Use two cars if you can get your hands on 'em; that way you can split up if anybody tails you. Grab the stuff and get to Wendy's."

Briefly, Jesse hears a muffled exchange that can only mean Pete's covered the mouthpiece and is having some kind of dipshit conference with Badger. "We've got your back, dude," Pete confirms a few seconds later. "Totally on it. As long as there's, uh, you know, there's somethin' in it for—"

"You'll be so goddamn rich you won't know whether to snort it or fuck it," Jesse says, hanging up.

 _This is the part_ , Jesse thinks, dismantling the phone once he's sent the text, _where everything goes either, like, completely to shit, or it works out because Mr. White is the Devil and has the luck of same._ He turns the car around and drives like the whole DEA unit's on his tail.

The first thing Jesse thinks, once he's parked back inside the compound and out of the car on wobbly legs and shaking like a goddamn leaf, is that he forgot to scrounge in the car for a gun. _There's no time_ , he tells himself, frantically scanning the dirt driveway. Mr. White is nowhere in sight, which, like, doesn't surprise him at all. _If I were you, douchebag, I'd probably be—_

Yeah, he knows _exactly_ where he'd be right now if he was Mr. White in full-on Butthurt Heisenberg Mode. It's between the cash and the glass, and he's running to the latter against every screaming-protest atom of his being. He doesn't want to go back, he does _not_ , but the heart-stutter in his chest pulses, pulled like a fucking lodestone. He twists the doorknob, pushes inside.

Mr. White's lying on the floor, gas mask abandoned to his left, arms spread like he's halted while making a snow angel. It's ridiculous. His breathing's shaky, but it's regular, and his eyes are open. He doesn't seem to notice Jesse has stepped so close that Jesse's sneakers touch his hair.

Jesse peers down at him in confused horror as he notices just how much the blood-stain has spread.

"What the _fuck_ is wrong with you?" he demands, dropping to a crouch next to Mr. White's head. "You better look at me, asshole, while this change-of-heart shit's still happening." He crawls forward, re-situating himself along Mr. White's non-bloody side so that he's looking at him right-side up. He smacks Mr. White's cheek with one hand, shaking his shoulder with the other.

"You came back," breathes Mr. White, clutching Jesse's hands. "Why— _why_ would you—"

"Ain't got no time for this, _Walt_ ," Jesse tells him, spitting the name like an insult. "Get up."

"That's only the—" Mr. White wheezes as Jesse helps him slowly into a sitting position, and then forward onto his hands and knees "—third or..." His words devolve into that dry, terrible rattle that, much to Jesse's fury, still makes Jesse's chest clench in concern. "Fourth time. You've ever."

"Shut _up_ , asshole. I'm gonna make a regular habit of callin' you worse," Jesse hisses, getting Mr. White's left arm around his neck, bracing his free hand flat against the gritty floor. "There, that better? Wait, what am I saying. Don't care. On one, _two_ —"

"Coming from you," Mr. White winces, groaning through his teeth as Jesse hauls him to his feet, "I'd say—that's almost—affectionate." He sways where they stand, sagging into Jesse's side. "I thought I'd never stand up again."

"If you don't shut your fucking mouth, I'm gonna drop you," Jesse warns. "The car's this way."

"Duly noted," Mr. White says, white-faced and tight-lipped. He lets Jesse hobble them along at slightly more than a snail's pace until they'd reach Todd's car where Jesse has left it, both front doors hanging wide open, in the middle of the driveway. "Jesse, are you— _sure_ you have a—"

"Plan's already in motion, Mr. White, and I swear to _God_ —" Jesse shoves the guy down hard in the passenger seat, ignoring the resulting cry of anguish even though it makes him feel sick. "You've just gotta trust I've got this under control, okay?"

Mr. White draws his legs inside the car, gesturing weakly at the door. He's already bleeding on the seat, and if _that_ isn't panic-inducing on top of everything else that already has Jesse's nerves jangling worse than the memory of withdrawal, then Jesse doesn't know what _is_.

Jesse closes the door more carefully than he should, stalking around to the driver's seat. He slams his own door shut, fumbling with his seatbelt. He can't afford to worry about Mr. White's, and, anyway, it'd do him more harm than good. "Stay quiet and let me drive," he mutters.

Mr. White nods, so Jesse wrenches the ignition and hits the pedal, gunning them out of there. 

 

* * *

 

Twenty-seven minutes later, Wendy isn't happy to see them. In fact, she is fucking pissed-off as _shit_ , a fact of which Jesse is aware without benefit of, like, Mr. White's PhD. Jesse had jury-rigged Mr. White's jacket around him as a makeshift bandage at the last stop-light and had also wrapped him in an Indian blanket he'd found wadded up in the back seat, and it's a miracle nobody'd hassled them for stumbling up the concrete stairs to Wendy's room like that. Crossroads regulars and residents tend to be nosy as fuck.

Now, Mr. White, dumped seconds ago on Wendy's turned-down, shower-curtain-covered bed, seems to have passed out. Not a single fucking word had passed between them on the drive, and if Jesse had believed in some higher power he surely would've thanked it for going to the trouble of shutting this asshole's mouth. Jesse sets a hand on Mr. White's chest, feeling the rise and fall of it, brows knit, while Wendy stands there barefoot and weary with her arms crossed and her mascara smudged.

"Did you think any further ahead than this?" she asks sarcastically, reaching for her pack of cigarettes on the bedside table, and, yeah, Jesse _so_ deserves it. "I bet not, 'cause everyone knows you're a regular Einstein. What about the cops?"

"The Feds ain't gonna look here, all right?" Jesse says, letting his eyes meet hers, refusing to let on that he's scared. "This is, like, under their noses and everything. Hiding in plain sight." This whole thing feels wrong when Presbyterian Hospital's _literally_ right across the street.

"Who else you got comin' to this party?" Wendy asks, sticking a Parliament between her lips before tossing the pack to Jesse while she lights up. The smell makes Jesse sick as much as it tempts him.

"This doctor guy, that's all you need to know, plus Skinny and Badger," Jesse replies, swallowing hard, setting the cigarettes back on the nightstand, but not before shoving one behind his ear.

"Your hair's seen better days," Wendy remarks, smirking. "Since when's _Heisenberg_ got hair?"

"Uh, since it grew back? Isn't that how it works?" Jesse retorts, pulling his hand back mid-reach when he realizes that it's made, of its own damn accord, as if to touch Mr. White's face.

"Jesse," Mr. White murmurs, starling them both, but his eyes don't open. "I think... _where_..."

"Thinkin' ain't your job anymore, Mr. White," Jesse tells him, giving his cheek a sharp, quick slap. He nods to Wendy, indicating with a nod that she should pull over one of the chairs from the table next to the shuttered window. "Thanks for gettin' the clothes. I'm gonna shower real quick."

"Oh, and what do I do if this doctor guy gets here while you're in there?" Wendy demands, flicking ash on the carpet. "How do I know if who's knockin' is the right person, huh? What's he look like?"

"Use the peep-hole! Beefy Hispanic dude," Jesse tells her, already halfway to the bathroom door, snagging both Wal-Mart bags on his way. Christ, his lungs are constricting again; maybe the steam will help. "Kinda your type. More than I ever was, anyhow—like, whatever, I was glad to pay."

"Your skinny ass is _his_ type," Wendy says, her voice muffled as Jesse closes the bathroom door, and he doesn't have to ask which _he_ she's talking about. Yeah, he's spent the better part of a year not fucking thinking about that to the point that it's sometimes _all_ he thinks about.

Jesse doesn't look at himself in the mirror while he undresses. He sets the cigarette on the sink.

There's not enough shitty motel soap or travel-size shampoo on _earth_ to make Jesse feel clean again, but the steam does open up his throat and his nasal passages to an epic onslaught of snot as he braces himself against the chipped barf-green tile and sobs his fucking heart out.

Once he's dry and dressed again, cigarette back behind his ear, in a thin plaid button-down and scratchy blue boxers and jeans that slide off his hips, he emerges to find Dr. Barry Goodman sitting in Wendy's chair next to the bed and Wendy smoking next to the window with her back turned.

"You've got nerve, Mr. Pinkman," says Dr. Goodman, who's checking Mr. White's pulse. "I spotted security cameras outside, but your friend reassures me that none of them actually work?"

"Yeah, and I've got money on the way," Jesse says, struggling into a pair of firework-patterned socks that were apparently ninety-nine cents in the post-Fourth-of-July sale bin. "So quit bitching."

"The wound's shockingly clean," Dr. Goodman informs him, "and I don't think the bullet's still lodged inside, but I won't know until I can take a closer look. I can't do that here, as I'll risk setting off more bleeding. Two of my team are waiting outside." He wiped his brow on the sleeve of his striped dress-shirt, tapping Mr. White's cheek, which elicited a faint sigh from his patient. "So, once your—what should we call it, magic undercover cash shipment?—arrives, where do you propose we take him for treatment? We can't stay put here, Mr. Pinkman. The long-term risk's too high."

Jesse rubs his jaw, hating the scruff he finds there, like it's somehow a _surprise_ or whatever. This is where he's fucked up, fucked up _big-time_ , because how could he be so fucking stupid as to assume that Dr. Goodman would be able to spirit his shit up to the hotel room and then work on Mr. White like it's nothing? They probably can't stay put; Wendy would have a fit. Jesse's starting to pace back and forth, frantic, when there's a volley of knocks on the door that makes Wendy yelp _Jesus!_ and race over to answer.

"Dude, this is so, so, _so_ not cool!" Badger yells, smacking right into Wendy as she lets him and Skinny Pete inside. He's got a grubby backpack in hand, and Pete's also nervously shouldering one. He lowers his voice, still freaking out, getting right up in Jesse's face. "There's all these dead _bodies_ and shit out there, man! Why didn't you give us some fuckin' _warning_?"

"Because _reasons_!" Jesse hisses back, shoving Badger in Pete's direction, but not before yanking the backpack out of his grasp and gesturing for Pete to surrender his loot, too. He takes a second to unzip and peer into both, satisfied that they're crammed to the gills with cash.

Wendy's peering over his shoulder, goggle-eyed. "Screw thirty," she says. "I want a hundred."

"A hundred Gs, are you fucking _insane_?" Jesse laughs, waving a single stack in her face. "You'd shoot it up in, like, a _week_." He grabs four more and shoves all five at her, finding he's still entirely desensitized to this much cash. "Fifty."

"Asshole," she snaps at him, running over to dump the armful of money onto the rucked-up bedspread next to Walt's feet before zigzagging back to the chest of drawers. "I'm fuckin' _outta_ here, what d'you think of that? _Asshole_. I got a kid to think of!"

"Yeah, yeah," Jesse sighs, rubbing the side of his neck, "or blow it on root beer for all I care." He turns from Wendy and her frantic packing, acutely aware that Badger and Skinny Pete are still staring at him, getting more and more fidgety by the second. He re-zips the backpacks and tosses one back at each of them, nodding his approval. "How many more bags do you have outside?"

"Like ten in each car, maybe twelve," says Badger, swallowing hard. "Didn't have time to count, man. There's still, like, a ton in the compound. We'd have needed a third set of wheels, I swear!"

Dr. Goodman clears his throat, on his feet, fingers latching onto Mr. White's wrist in alarm. "If someone doesn't help me get this man outside _now_ , I can't promise that his prospects will remain as hopeful as they are. _If_ they are."

"Just chill, I'll do it," Jesse says, gathering up the Walgreens bags where he'd abandoned them between the bed and the bathroom, slinging them high enough up his arm that he's carrying them like a couple of purses or something. As an afterthought, he grabs the nearest empty shopping bag he can find and shoves the bloody clothes and blanket Dr. Goodman had peeled off of Mr. White into it. "People are gonna see us carry him out. I kinda just hope they'll think he's drunk off his ass or high or beat-up or whatever. It happens often enough around here, lemme tell you."

Wendy just shrugs, shoving the last of her clothes into her ratty shoulder bag, shoving her feet into one of like a dozen pairs of stiletto heels scattered around the room. "I ain't seen nothin'," she says, pushing past all of them, making a hasty exit. "I hope you fuckers have a real nice life."

"Hey, not so fast," Jesse says, thinking of something. He fishes in his back pocket for Todd's car keys, and then tosses them at Wendy. She catches them, alert. "Keys to the sweet-ass '78 El Camino you're gonna find parked out there. I know you still ain't got a car. Clean up the blood and shit, use it for whatever you need to, and then, like, take it to that guy who used to keep the Ship for me. You might have to give him some cash, but, who knows, he might buy it off you for parts."

Wendy flips him off with the same hand in which she's got the keys, but she nods as she flees.

Skinny Pete and Badger leave next, with the shower curtain folded up under Pete's coat and the understanding that they're to follow Dr. Goodman's armored truck wherever it goes. Juggling Mr. White out the door and down the stairs between himself and Dr. Goodman is the tough part; Mr. White jerks and moans and shivers because Dr. Goodman's trying to keep hold of him under the arms and keep his fresh Walgreens shirt down while, _shit_ , Jesse notices that the bleeding's started up again. Jesse's got Mr. White's feet as they stagger down the concrete stairs, almost tripping over himself, his chafed-raw wrists _aching_.

He doesn't know how the team in the truck knows to push the doors open as they approach, but they do. Once Mr. White's bundled inside for the strapping-down ambulance bustle to start, Dr. Goodman eyes Skinny Pete's backpack. Jesse nods to Pete, who unshoulders and unzips it.

"Give me all of that bag for starters," says Dr. Goodman, unblinking, "and I'll go inside and get to work. And you, Mr. Pinkman, will get in the front seat and make whatever calls you need to make."

"Yeah, that's right," Jesse says, grabbing the backpack off an indignant Pete and shoving it at Dr. Goodman. "And I'll just, uh, tell your driver exactly where to go once...I know..." Jesse makes a useless gesture. "Relax, I've got a guy."

"I'll just take another one," Pete says, tapping Badger on the shoulder. "Gotta drive now, yo!"

On the road again, in the passenger seat, buckled in next to Dr. Goodman's driver with two Walgreens bags crinkling between his fucked-up ankles and another goddamn disposable cell phone in his shaking right hand, Jesse dials the only other number he's got memorized and _prays_.

He's running on adrenaline and no sleep and he's improbably, _miraculously_ cold-turkey clean as the phone rings and rings and rings until, heart in his throat, he hears somebody pick up. This is Mr. White's luck on his side all right.

"Best Quality Vacuum Repair," says a put-upon, gravelly voice. "We're technically closed now."

"Yeah, well," says Jesse, swallowing hard, " _I_ technically need a dust filter for a Hoover Max Extract 60 Pressure Pro, only, like..." He flounders, trawling his brain for every scrap of code-word bullshit and detail about the nature of this guy's operation that he can remember Saul patiently spelling out for him, realizing he's going to have to improvise past a certain point. "Not just the Deluxe Service.  We are talking...super, _super_ Deluxe Service with a cherry on top, like...where I come to you right the fuck now and we grab the stuff, like, that's how urgently I need it. This place is filthy, man, and my vacuum's _way_ busted. Like, it's gushing shit everywhere. My friend can repair it on-site if you have the parts."

There's a heavy, sullen sigh on the end of the line, followed by a single question: "It's _him_?"

"Sorry to burst your bubble, but yeah," Jesse mutters, glancing at the driver. "So, like...direct me."

 

 * * *

 

The Disappearer looks like the sorriest-ass motherfucker Jesse's ever seen. He's got huge, dark circles under his eyes, and his greying dark hair sticks out in every direction. He opens the gate and stands aside, letting all three vehicles pass. Once they've all parked, Jesse jogs over to where Skinny Pete's a step ahead of him, removing yet another random backpack from the back seat of his car, passing it off to Jesse. He spins on his heel and approaches the guy with the backpack while Dr. Goodman and his team wheel Mr. White—cut out of his fresh clothes already and strapped to a gurney with IV and oxygen mask and everything already, holy _shit_ —off the truck. Jesse swallows hard.

"There's like six hundred and fifty, maybe seven hundred in here," he says, handing the backpack to their would-be savior. "How's that for a downpayment? Does it sound like overtime's worth your while?"

Dude glances over his shoulder at the medical hubbub, eyeing Mr. White's inert form with pitying distaste. "Walt always made it worth my while, I'll give him that. Looks like you follow suit."

"I learned from the absolute best," Jesse replies defensively, shocked at how genuinely proud he is to admit it. "Lemme give you an idea of the full parameters here. Saul said you've got this secret bunker-type deal where people stay till you move 'em along. We need to turn that into an emergency room for, like, as long as it takes to get Mr. White back on his feet, or at least get him stable."

"If I get any clients, that'd cause problems," the guy warns. "My day-to-day _normal_ clients might cause problems, even." He idly scratches his cheek. "I might have to close for, I don't know, renovations, you get my drift? And you guys must be after relocation services, too. Making two people disappear is harder than one, especially when you already did one of 'em."

"Yeah, I know," Jesse says, nodding to indicate to Badger and Skinny Pete that they should follow Dr. Goodman and crew inside; he needs a second here. "He blew his cover. He's a fucking asshole. I get that." He shoves his hands in his pockets. "Whatever you want. Name your price."

"Two point five million," says the Disappearer, without missing a beat. "The point five's for having to close."

"Suits me just fine," Jesse says, offering the dude his hand, actually flat-out shocked he's not asking for an even three. He'd done some rough math on his phone on the trip over, and, if what Badger and Pete are saying is right, they must've grabbed somewhere in the neighborhood of thirty-five to forty million and change. Sure, that means like half the green's going to rot away in that storage shed, but it gives Jesse a fuck-ton of satisfaction knowing that Mr. White will be _ripshit_ when he hears about it. "Done deal, Mr.—?"

"Ed's all you need to call me," says the vacuum-repair guy, shaking Jesse's hand. "Mr. Pinkman."

"Mr. Ed," laughs Jesse, swaying at Ed's strong grip. "Just like the talking horse on Nick at Nite."

"I'll need to direct your friends to their workspace," Ed sighs, already heading inside. "See about mocking up some signs about the closure. I'll have to get straight to work on the rest of it, too."

"Dude, nah," Jesse says, trailing after him, glancing at the gate to make sure he'd padlocked it. "You should get some sleep." He wants to check Badger's and Pete's cars to make sure they're locked, but there isn't time. He feels better the second the warehouse door closes behind them.

While Ed apologizes to Dr. Goodman about the state of things and leads him to wherever the secret room is, Jesse's left alone with a bunch of dusty fucking vacuum cleaners and Badger and Pete looking kind of shaky and vulnerable, like they don't know what's next and just want to go home.

"Here's what we're gonna do," Jesse sighs, stepping closer to both of them, eyes lowered, proverbial hat in hand. "We're gonna go back outside and unload the luggage. We're gonna bring it in here and count it while Dr. Goodman saves Mr. White's life. Once that's done, you guys are gonna take a million each and get the hell out of here. You deserve it for putting up with this shit-show."

"We don't even know how much we grabbed, man!" sputters Badger, reaching for Jesse, shaking him. "You're being, like, way casual with how much of this shit you're handing out, I'm just sayin'."

"Too right, yo," Pete agrees, but he adds a hand to Badger's against Jesse's shoulder. "Listen, is this gonna be, like, the last time we ever see you? Not to get mushy on you all of a sudden, but this is getting way too real."

"Oh, like it wasn't real enough for you before?" Jesse demands, roughly shaking them both off. He can feel exhaustion clamping down harder, and that's when he remembers he's got a cigarette behind his ear. He snatches it and sticks it in his mouth, jerking his head toward the door. "C'mon."

Once they're outside, he makes Badger hand over his lighter. The first drag hits Jesse's lungs like the poison it is; he hasn't had a cigarette in six months, maybe, because Todd had been a stingy, twisted motherfucker and had sometimes given him ice cream instead. He's still coughing when he takes the second drag, but there it is, _there's_ the kick, the rush. He laughs out loud.

"Dude, are you sure you're not, like, losing your mind?" Pete asks, one hand on the back-door handle while Badger, up front, unlocks the car and pops the trunk. "Word on the street says you moved to fucking Alaska. Where have you _been_?"

"Where do you think I've been?" Jesse demands, starting in on unloading the trunk. "You saw those bodies 'cause Mr. White killed them all. Didn't you see all the shackles and chains out there? Or that, like, hole in the ground where they kept me?"

Badger actually drops his car keys as he comes to help Pete unload the back seat. " _Shit_."

"So _that's_ why you look like some hick or somethin', no offense," Pete says, tone somber.

"Ain't got time to think about this," Jesse grits out, his hands starting to shake as he piles bag after bag after _bag_ on the pavement. He watches Badger and Pete pull one more load out of the back seat, and then they move over to Pete's car. "That haul's like...five duffel bags and six backpacks?" Jesse watches Pete pop the trunk of his car. "How 'bout in this one?"

Badger's already racing to Pete's popped trunk, dragging out two, no, _three_ backpacks in one go, and then comes a duffel bag and a carry-on size suitcase. "You're gonna flip, dude."

All in all, there are nine average-size duffel bags, thirteen backpacks, and the suitcase. Jesse is impressed as fuck at how much they'd managed to cram, because this isn't even counting the backpacks he'd handed over to Dr. Goodman and to Ed, _or_ the fifty thousand he'd given Wendy. He nods, wordless with approval, and picks up a couple of the nearest backpacks.

It takes them about twenty minutes to get it all inside. Jesse realizes that counting this shit with the likes of Pete and Badger for assistance isn't worth the effort. Instead of telling them to get started, he dumps out one of the duffel bags while, frozen, they watch. Takes long enough for him to count out two hundred of the goddamn banded stacks of hundreds, tossing them into the duffel bag one by one. "Two million," he says finally, zipping the bag up. "Enjoy it in good health."

"I ain't exactly been clean in a while, but," says Pete, "my cat keeps me grounded, you know?"

Badger grins at both of them, nervous, kind of giddy. "That moderation bullshit's kinda dope."

"Listen, you guys could be using the Blue as _bath crystals_ for all I care," Jesse says, rubbing his nose, wishing he'd thought to grab a second cigarette. He won't ask either of them to surrender one, not after what he's put them through. "Take your money and get the fuck outta here."

What stuns him isn't that their quick, simultaneous movement isn't toward the duffel bag. It's that both of them latch onto him at the same time, and it's, like, the world's most awkward group hug.

"Guess you won't even be Jesse anymore," Badger chokes out. "Like, where's Ed gonna send you?"

"Don't know," Jesse says, giving in, letting his head drop to Badger's shoulder. "Don't really care."

"Aw, _Jesus_ , man," moans Skinny Pete, shaking like he might actually be starting to cry and shit, which is _not_ going to help Jesse on that front. "We've been friends for, like, ever."

"Yeah, and you're gonna get along without me," Jesse tells him, lifting his head, shifting his grasp over to Pete. He claps both Pete's shoulders, lowering his voice. "Take care of Badge, huh?"

"Bitch, I can fucking _hear_ you," says Badger, teary, in irritation. "Why do _I_ need—"

"Because I say so," Jesse replies, disentangling himself from both of them, wiping his nose on his sleeve. "Have you guys got more shit than usual for brains, or what? Get. The _fuck_. Out."

Pete shakes his head at Jesse, pale eyes somber under the artificial light, and then hefts up the duffel bag unaided with all that surprising, wiry strength. Beside him, Badger gives Jesse a sad, small wave before turning his back. Jesse backpedals, watching them load the duffel into the trunk of Pete's car before each of them before Badger returns to his own. He can't stand to linger, so he stalks back inside vacuum-cleaner purgatory, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.

Ed's sitting on a stool behind the service desk; he's turned on a few lights. He's staring at the money still scattered on the floor, taking stock of the epic luggage pile. "You don't even know how much you've got, do you?" he asks, whistling low between his teeth. "How much _he's_ got."

"You don't like to say his name, do you?" Jesse shoots back, gathering up stray stacks of cash a few at a time, shoving them into other bags here and there till the mess is cleaned up. "How come?"

Ed shrugs. "I think you know the answer to that," he says, gesturing Jesse over to the counter. He pulls a bottle of Jack Daniel's and two scratched-up shot glasses out from underneath. "He won't take no for an answer. What's worse is, he knows how to get that _yes_ he's looking for."

Jesse knocks back the shot without thinking twice. "This wasn't his idea, just so we're clear."

Ed drinks his shot in a few measured sips, regarding Jesse with puzzlement. "Is that right?"

"Like, earlier, couple of hours back?" Jesse leans hard on the counter. "He asked me to kill him. I kid you not, he asked me to put a fucking _bullet_ in his head. This ain't what he wants."

"Then why go to such trouble to keep him alive?" Ed ventures, patiently refilling the shot glasses.

" _Because_ it ain't what he wants," Jesse laughs, clinking his glass against Ed's before sucking the second shot down. "Also because the money's his, and it'll, like, royally piss him off."

"Do _you_ want him alive?" Ed presses on, drinking his second shot much faster than his first.

Jesse sets down his shot glass, staring at his hands. They're clean, but cut-up, and he's glad the sleeves of his shitty Walgreens plaid are just slightly too long. "Let's just say he's saved my life more times than he's tried to kill me," he sighed. "I know what you're gonna say, but I don't wanna hear it right now. He might be the asshole to end all assholes, but that kinda counts for something."

"At what cost, kiddo?" Ed asks, suddenly weary. _Goddamn_ , this dude and his questions.

"Knowing he can't say jack _shit_ anymore," Jesse spits. "Knowing _I_ got us out of the clusterfuck back there, that _I'm_ the one in charge." _Knowing only the worst happens when we escape each other's orbit, knowing—_

He registers Ed's expectant expression before he registers the footsteps behind him, the tap on his shoulder. He turns to see Dr. Goodman, still all suited up in surgery kit and bloody blue gloves, standing in front of him. He feels his heart hammer in his chest, chokes down the bile in his throat.

"No bullet," says Dr. Goodman. "As clean as I'd hoped for, so I stitched him up inside and out. However, he's lost just enough blood," he continues carefully, "that I'd prefer to err on the side of a transfusion. To answer your question from earlier, I don't have the blood. It wouldn't have lasted this long. For future reference, the shelf-life is around forty days. But I have something better."

Jesse swallows, nodding, his mind whirring. "Right on, right on," he said, "so is it synthetic—"

"Mr. White's blood type is A-positive," explains Dr. Goodman, patiently, "and yours is A-negative."

"Yeah, you told me that one time, like, _ages_ ago," Jesse replies. "Down in Juárez. So?"

"You're the only compatible donor at my disposal," Dr. Goodman says, and there it is, bombshell.

"You've gotta be fucking _kidding_ me," Jesse hisses, but, in spite of his surge of fury, he's already unbuttoning the cuffs of his shirt-sleeves and rolling them up. He doesn't give a shit now if Ed sees the damage he's taken, and he's actually kind of relieved to be showing it off to a doctor.

"If you'd come with me, I'll prep you, get the transfusion process underway, and then have a look at those," says Dr. Goodman, indicating Jesse's wrists. "Any other injuries that I should know about?"

"Yeah, my ankles," Jesse says, following Dr. Goodman without so much as a goodnight to Ed. "Some, uh, what would you call 'em, abrasions around, like, my middle and everything, too."

Doctor Goodman casts a cool, mildly concerned glance over his shoulder as they reach the stairs. "Would you mind filling me in on how you sustained these?" he inquires on the way down.

"Yeah, I'd mind a fucking _lot_ ," Jesse replies, leaving it at that, taking a seat next to Walt's bed like the nurse with startling hazel eyes and black, pulled back hair instructs him. When he doesn't make a move to take off his own shirt, the nurse just does it for him; he sits there like a rag-doll or a stuffed animal or something, eyes fixed on Mr. White with his oxygen mask and bandages and fragile-seeming, exposed skin. He's seen Mr. White's faded surgery scar before, but it stands out faint, livid purple somehow under the terrible lighting. He feels an alcohol swab cool against his arm, and then the burn of a butterfly needle's entry. For a second, he thinks he might vomit.

"You want me to give you something for the nausea?" asks the hazel-eyed nurse, in accented English, and Jesse blinks at them. He can't tell what kind of person he's interacting with, dude or lady or otherwise. Doesn't matter. Gratefully, he licks his lips and nods, and it turns out the other nurse, big and beardy behind his clinical mask, is already on hand with an injection that gets plunged so swiftly into Jesse's right bicep that he scarcely feels it. "This is Zofran," says hazel-eyes. "It may also help you fall asleep faster."

Big-and-beardy says something to them in Spanish, and then pats Jesse's shoulder. "Worst's over."

Inside like sixty seconds, Jesse feels drowsy, at which point he's dimly aware the nurses have shoved a pillow between his head and the cinderblock wall so he can just loll there while they take off his shoes and socks and do shit to his wrists and ankles. Some of it stings, but it's not enough to prevent him from drifting off. He feels warm and weirdly protected.

Jesse wakes briefly when somebody manhandles him away from the back of the chair and the pillow for a few seconds to wrap a blanket around him, because, huh, he's still shirtless. Next thing he knows, there's more Spanish and he's being bodily moved to a rough-sheeted mattress and his jeans and boxers are being tugged off him and somebody's examining him from shoulders to torso with careful, gloved fingers.

 _If the worst's over_ , he thinks, surrendering to oblivion, _then the next-worst's coming._

   

* * *

 

Jesse wakes up groggy and, briefly, he panics. There's an IV stuck in the back of his hand, and he does _not_ remember how that got there; gasping for breath, he flails so hard with both arms in an effort to sit up that he almost yanks the needle out. He curls forward, cradling his left hand to his chest, shivering and disoriented. He can tell he's in nothing but boxers under his hospital gown, which has also appeared out of nowhere, and he's got gauze bandages around his wrists and ankles and, _oh_. Patches of gauze around his waist, too, because the tape pulls when he moves.

He turns his head slowly to the right, his ear drawn by the soft beeping of equipment just as much as his eye's drawn by the fact that, _shit_ , his bed and Mr. White's are lined up parallel to as to share all the gadget hook-ups in the middle. There's just a little too much space between them for Jesse to reach out with his right hand and touch Mr. White's elbow, but there'd be no need.

Mr. White is awake, lying there with his head turned toward Jesse and his nostrils flaring around the breathing-tube stuck in them. His color is better than before, but he still looks kind of like death warmed over. Jesse is instantly reminded of Aunt Ginny's rougher days, and he just barely manages to shove off that collection of memories before his vision starts to blur. He lets his IV-saddled hand drop back into his sheet-and-blanket-covered lap, offering Mr. White a tentative wave.

"Would it be inappropriate," rasps Mr. White, through cracked lips, "to ask where the hell we are?"

"Maybe," Jesse replies, straightening his spine, leaning toward him. "We're _safe_ , asshole."

"The more pertinent question is," Mr. White continues, squinting, "why am I still _alive_?"

 _So it's gonna be like this, huh?_ Jesse thinks, biting the inside of his cheek. He directs his gaze away from Mr. White for just long enough to collect his thoughts; he blinks at his needle-skewered hand in his lap and then makes a big show of studying the cotton-ball taped down against his inner right arm. He turns it outward so Mr. White can see, meeting Mr. White's gaze again.

"You're alive because I was the only compatible donor Dr. Goodman had at his disposal, bitch."

Mr. White's brow furrows, as if he's still too drugged to process this information. "Goodman?"

"Not Saul," Jesse clarifies, realizing how confusing that name must be given Mr. White hadn't been along for the ride to Mexico. "Gus Fring's, like, former personal doctor. Saved him and Mike."

Mr. White pulls a face, lips twisting in disgust. "Jesse, are we by any chance being held prisoner?"

"No, _Walt_ , we're not," Jesse retorts, flopping back against his crappy pillow as hard as he dares. "Ain't nobody left to hold us. It's pretty clear to me that you're not operating at full mental capacity right now, so I'm not gonna tell you, like, where we are or how we got here 'cause I'm too fucking tired to explain this shit to your doped-up ass. The simple answer is that you got stitched up, I gave you some of my blood because you lost a ton, and we're gonna sleep this shit off like some kinda bad dream."

"Some kind of bad dream," Mr. White echoes, brow furrowing deeply. "Jesse, they had you—"

"I _know_ where they had me," Jesse seethes, swinging his legs out of bed before he realizes how hard that's going to yank his IV line and, _fuck_ , does it sting. He's bent over Mr. White before he can get his fury under control, gripping the guy's chin with his right hand while his left arm's extended helplessly behind him so the needle doesn't pull out. " _You don't_."

It's satisfying to hear Mr. White's breath ratchet up a notch in outright fear. "I'm listening, Jesse."

Letting go of him roughly, Jesse backs down, feeling suddenly self-conscious about the fact that he's barefoot and the floor's cold and his stomach's growling up a storm. But he can't let this go, can't _not_ take the opportunity to let this asshole know exactly what he's been through, or at least a piece of it, so he stands there while Mr. White's glassy, concerned eyes bore into him.

"Mr. White, lemme try to paint this picture for you, like, nice and clear," he says, taking an unsteady breath. "You know how we had Krazy-8 shut up in my basement way back in the day? Precious memories, right? It was almost _exactly_ like that, except I had to spend like ten hours a day cooking for those douchebags, and nobody was cutting the crusts off my sandwiches."

At first, Mr. White doesn't say anything. But Jesse's last words, those and the tears streaming helplessly down his cheeks now—like, goddamn, can he just _not_ be the pussy Jack and his fuckwads were constantly telling him he was for like _five seconds_?—appear to have hit their mark. Suddenly, Mr. White's jaw is trembling and he's making a sound of unearthly despair Jesse knows he's heard before.

Only this time, it's not for Hank Schrader. It's for _him_.

"You should have..." Mr. White's in tears, too, so the fact that Jesse's crying doesn't matter. "You should've killed me when I gave you the fucking _chance on a platter_! Jesse, _you_ —"

"Stupid junkie prick?" Jesse suggests helpfully, hiccuping on another sob, collapsing back onto the edge of his mattress. He's dizzy and worn-out and has nothing to blow his nose on except the sheets, so that's exactly what he does. He can't bring himself to look at Mr. White, can't bear it.

"—had every right," Mr. White finishes, voice hollow like the rattle of his ever-present cough.

"Shit, Mr. White," Jesse hiccups, screwing his eyes shut, curling up against his pillow. "I don't know, like...even if that's true, what good would it have done either of us? Like, okay, wanting to be dead. I tried to want it, had every _reason_ to want it while those assholes had me, but there was, like, this rosy-tinted or whatever part of my brain that just..." He gasps into the pillowcase, wondering where the fuck the nurses are and why nobody has come to give them fucking sedatives given the racket they're making. "Wouldn't, Mr. White. Couldn't do it."

"There's more blood on my hands than yours," says Mr. White, unevenly, like he still hasn't gotten his tears under control. "My death would've expunged it. Now, we're both stuck with the sight."

"Well, excuse _me_ , Lady Macbeth," Jesse retorts. The metaphor's kind of forced, _but_.

Unexpectedly, Mr. White lets out a short, delirious bark of laughter. After that, he coughs for a little while; Jesse wants to launch himself out of bed again, but he doesn't. After that, Mr. White's silent.

Jesse opens his eyes when someone's hand falls on his arm. The hazel-eyed nurse is peering at him.

"Mr. White is asleep," says the nurse, eyes crinkling in concern. "Can I get you something to eat?"

"Yeah," Jesse says, but he makes no move to sit up, much less roll over. "Hey, what's your name?"

"Paz," says the nurse, leaving him to stew on that with another gentle squeeze of Jesse's shoulder.

 

* * *

 

Turns out Ed is a man of many, many more talents than the many of which Jesse is already aware. It's seven days out from the gut-spilling, shrieking-match fiasco and, mercifully, he's sitting here, freshly shaved, on an antique bar-stool while Ed cuts his hair. He has no idea how much like his old self he's going to look, not with these fucking scars on his face. He's tired of feeling mangy.

Mr. White hasn't been awake much, mostly owing to the fact that he keeps coughing (Dr. Goodman _thinks_ it's that creepy inflammation in his lungs instead of anything more sinister) and needs to be almost constantly sedated so his wounds can heal. They still can't get Mr. White properly X-rayed or PET-scanned, so there's no way of knowing if his more recent chemo has made a difference. There's also no way of knowing if it's safe to start that shit up again, but Dr. Goodman had reassured Jesse after an extensive chemo-administration tutorial that there's enough drugs and needles in the boxes he's leaving them for, like, at least a year's worth of treatments.

Jesse had thanked him and retorted that, jeez, maybe he should've just gone to nursing school.

Paz, listening in on the conversation, had said that wasn't a half-bad idea. Jesse had _stared_.

"Kiddo, you've gotta hold still," Ed sighs, setting both hands, even the one wielding scissors, on Jesse's shoulders. "I can't give you a halfway decent cut here if you keep changing the angle."

"Are you tryin' to tell me you didn't actually train as a barber, too?" Jesse jokes. "Am I gonna look like ass in my new passport and driver's license photos? Or can you photoshop out the suck?"

"I can photoshop out a hell of a lot, but a bad 'do isn't one of those things," Ed says, combing through Jesse's hair, doing that test-tug-for-length thing all over. Jesse doesn't have a mirror in front of him, so there's no way of knowing how well the guy's doing with the concept of texturization.

"Like we've gotta get Mr. White up here kinda soon," Jesse observes pensively. "For photos."

"We need to get the guy looking less like himself first," Ed replies. "Even with hair, he's too recognizable." He's quiet for a few seconds, and then _snip, snip, snip_. "If he shaves..."

Jesse tries to picture Mr. White with the mess currently on his head and _no_ facial hair.

"That's just weird," he blurts, halting his feet mid-twitch. "So weird it might actually work."

At another tap from Ed against the back of his neck, Jesse clamps his still-bandaged ankles down on the stool-legs and holds his body rigid. He's always been jittery, but it seems like a more pervasive thing than ever before. He doesn't want to look too closely at why that might be, either.

"What's my name gonna be?" Jesse asks, hoping mouth-movement is okay. "Thought it up yet?"

"It's less a process of thinking-up and more a process of assigning you a pre-existing identity that nobody else is currently using," Ed says, feathering his fingers through Jesse's hair before spritzing it again and combing it out. "Walt made a terrible Mr. Lambert, but he might make a decent Martin Dedham. As for you, I'm stuck between Carl Page and Bruce Devereaux. What do you think?"

"My middle name is Bruce," says Jesse, quietly. "Devereaux is a dope last name and all, but..."

"Then, Carl," replies Ed, tugging the towel off Jesse's shoulders, "why don't you go have a look?"

Before Jesse can hop off the stool, Dr. Goodman, Joaquín, and Paz stride into the cluttered workshop space wearing civilian clothes.

They've all got suitcases in hand, neat and professional, looking like they're off on a business trip. Jesse realizes abruptly that they're not taking the few pieces of equipment they hadn't bothered to pack up the night before. And with the money Jesse's paying them, why _should_ they even worry?

"There's a job coming up south of the border," Dr. Goodman says, studying Jesse more closely than usual. "I'm confident you can take over what care Mr. White requires from this point forward. When the latest round of sedation wears off, don't give him more. You'll need him conscious."

"Shame, too, like, 'cause it's so peaceful when he's asleep," says Jesse, sweetly, hopping off the stool. He shakes Dr. Goodman's hand, clearing his throat. "Dr. Goodman, I can't—thank you."

"You're not obliged to, Mr. Pinkman," Dr. Goodman reassures him amiably, releasing Jesse's hand.

Joaquín, ever the silent partner, just gives Jesse a curt, smiling nod. But Paz, who's knock-out gorgeous and still not _any_ gender Jesse considers himself familiar with, embraces him.

"Wherever you're going, you be careful," Paz whispers. "Men like el cabrón are no end of trouble."

"I'll call him that to his face if he misbehaves," Jesse says, hugging back _hard_. "Promise."

Just like that, Jesse and Ed are alone again. While Ed whips out the broom and starts to sweep up, Jesse dashes back downstairs to have a look in the tiny, shitty mirror on the back wall of the room.

"Jesse, I don't know if you're aware," remarks Mr. White, and, _huh_ , Jesse hadn't even registered that he's awake, "but you look approximately like someone out of my tenth-grade yearbook."

Jesse reaches the mirror, breathless, and his stomach drops through the floor. Mr. White is, infuriatingly, correct. He looks like he fell out of the 1970s, and not one of the cool parts. "Don't be dissin' my man Mr. Ed," he replies peevishly. "He did the best he could, all right?"

"I wouldn't worry about it," Mr. White says, dropping the mild sarcasm. "You can get it cut any way you want once we make it to our final destination." He pauses, pensive. "Any word on that?"

"Nope," replies Jesse, turning around, crossing the room to stand next to Mr. White's bed. He's sitting propped up against a pile of pillows, and it's weird as shit, because he looks almost healthy. Impulsively, Jesse takes a seat on the mattress next to Mr. White's blanket-covered feet. "But I found out that you're gonna be known as Martin Dedham, and I'm stuck with Carl Page."

"Carl and Martin," Mr. White echoes, like he's tasting the damn names. "It could be worse." Something beneath the surface of his affability darkens, manifesting as a mean glint in his grey-green eyes. "Jesse, perhaps I've been wrong to err on the side of caution, but I need to ask: how exactly are we _paying_ for all of the elaborate services you've engaged in the past week?"

"Oh, like, that's easy," Jesse says, feeling his stomach coil tight in spite of how low-key he's playing this. "The night we hauled your ass down here, I sent Badger and Skinny Pete out to pick up some of your cash. Those Nazi fuckheads had it in loads of luggage and stuff in one of their sheds."

Mr. White's expression turns so cold Jesse instantly regrets thinking he might get away with this.

"How much of my money did they retrieve," he says flatly, "and how much of it did you pay out?"

Jesse screws his eyes shut, ready to rattle off the accounting he's had prepped for a few days now.

"Minus fifty thousand to shut Wendy up, a million each to Badger and Skinny, two point five million to Ed, and, _uh_ , five million to the medical team, there's exactly thirty-two million, four hundred and twenty thousand left. I counted it last night, just for you. You're welcome."

When Jesse opens his eyes, Mr. White looks like he's doing his best to stave off one of those, what's he call them, apoplectic fits or something. He's doing a decent job, too, until he bursts out, red-faced, voice cracking, "Jesse, would you please stop just _giving away_ my money! And at that kind of exorbitant fee, you damned well should've sent Brandon and Pete back for the rest!"

"Yo, asshole, they couldn't grab it _all_! I wasn't just gonna put them back in harm's way!"

"Do you even understand how paltry this makes the nine million I left in trust with Gretchen and Elliott for my kids _look_?" Mr. White says, and then, abruptly, all the hot air's gone from him. He swallows, clutching his side like he's hurt himself or something. "Look, Jesse, I'm—"

"Do _you_ even understand how _petty_ you're being after all of that damage you undid the other night with your automatic murder machine and, like, saving my life?" Jesse demands, teeth gritted, furious, but all he can think is _don't cry don't cry don't cry_. "Do you know what I gave up for this? Like, seriously, if the sum total of what you've taken from me wasn't high enough already, I had to say goodbye to my two best fucking friends in the _world_! All for this, okay? Do you get it?" Screw it, he's dripping tears on the blankets over Mr. White's feet; he's grabbing Mr. White's ankle like he means to break it. "All for _you_!"

"I'm _sorry_ ," blurts Mr. White, looking like _he_ might fall apart again, too. It's something they have in common now, this fucked-up fragility, and it's the only thing standing between Jesse and hating this piece of work as much as he'd come to eight and a half months ago. "Jesse, I can't...take any of this back. I wanted to pay for it, blood for blood, but you wouldn't let me. Instead, you gave me some of yours. This isn't what I..."

" _Dude_ ," Jesse laughs hysterically, letting go of Mr. White's ankle, thumping the mattress, "it's totally not, like, what I had planned either, all right? I can tell you a dozen better plans we could've made, Mr. White, but we blew through all those warning barriers without losing steam."

He's so busy trying to wipe his dripping nose on his sleeve that it takes him about five full seconds to realize that Mr. White is scooting his way painstakingly down the bed, wincing, presumably with intent to get closer to Jesse. When their eyes lock, Mr. White's expression turns sheepish.

"Come here," he says softly, muffling a brief coughing fit behind his hand. "Jesse, I wish—"

 _If wishes were horses_ , Jesse thinks, just like Aunt Ginny used to say, and practically launches himself into Mr. White's arms. Yeah, he hopes to God it hurts the guy, like, a _lot_ , but he's just so desperate for human contact that isn't a nurse _there-there_ shushing him. He burrows into Mr. White totally sober this time, clinging to Mr. White's neck and mouthing angry, wet nothings. _Then beggars might ride_.

When Ed comes downstairs ten minutes later to tell them they'd better be ready to roll out in forty-eight hours, that's how he finds them: curled together under Mr. White's blankets. Jesse feels his heart-rate rise, but Mr. White's is steady and slow.

"Thank you," is all Mr. White says, tucking Jesse closer against his chest, holding him tightly.

Jesse watches as Ed, shaking his head, just gives up on responding and leaves the room again. 

 

* * *

 

Jesse studies their surroundings as objectively as he can, trying his best to pretend this isn't tripping off his tendency toward semi-claustrophobia like _whoa_. He'd taken an anti-anxiety pill about an hour before, and it's starting to make him dizzy. For some reason, cooking on the Ship had never bugged him much; he and Mr. White had worked out their patterns of movement, like some delicate dance, down to an actual fucking science. Why does he even _miss_ it? His sense of nostalgia baffles him sometimes.

The truck they're now sitting in, on a beat-up old queen-size mattress covered in polyester sleeping bags and cover-less pillows, is roughly the same size as the Pollos Hermanos delivery trucks used to be. Mr. White is lying on his back next to Jesse, staring at the ceiling, while Jesse sits with his back up against the rattling wall and switches the flashlight on and off with increasing agitation.

"Jesse," murmurs Mr. White, gentler than ever, reaching out to take hold of Jesse's wrist. "Relax."

"I don't take orders from you anymore, remember?" Jesse reminds him, leaving the flashlight on.

"We have a couple more, but I don't want us to run out of batteries," Mr. White explains calmly.

"Yo, can't you just, I dunno, whip us up a couple more like you did that one time we got stuck in the desert?"

Jesse shines the flashlight in Mr. White's face, surprised to see that he's smiling. "I doubt there's anything in either our present luggage _or_ our medical supplies that I could repurpose."

"Of course there is," Jesse informs him, switching the flashlight off. "You're an evil genius."

"We're about four hours into this trip," replies Mr. White, cautiously, "and, I don't know if you were paying attention when Ed explained this, our destination is _thirty-three hours away_. That's without pit-stops. He'll be taking them for his own benefit, but he won't be able to do much more for us than crack the roll-up door now and then to let in some fresh air. Assuming he's quick about his stops and doesn't sleep much, which I can tell you from past experience is the case, we're stuck in here for around forty hours minimum. If he's feeling sadistic, it could be closer to fifty."

"Two whole days in the dark with your grouchy ass for company and, like, empty soda bottles to piss in," Jesse mutters, tossing aside the flashlight. "Ain't I just won the lottery or somethin'."

"This is the fucking Hilton in comparison to what I had the first time around," says Mr. White.

"Yeah?" Jesse asks, wriggling down so that he's lying on his side against his pile of pillows instead, able to squint levelly at Mr. White through the not-quite-darkness. "How'd he smuggle you to NH?"

Mr. White's rueful laughter gives way to a brief, rattling cough. "In an empty propane-tank truck."

"I'm kinda disappointed it _was_ empty," Jesse jokes, wondering if the part of him that's still clinging to the hate-facet of his complex relationship with this guy next to him even means it. "That totally blows, though. I bet Mr. Ed couldn't fit more than a couple of blankets in there."

"My back wasn't in the best state for a while afterward," Mr. White agrees, easily ignoring the dig.

Tentatively, Jesse scoots closer to him. They're now working under an unspoken assumption of cuddling-for-comfort-is-kosher-because-we're-both-irreparably-fucked-up, and Jesse's still starved for all of the warmth and kindness he can get. He hadn't left Mr. White's bed for the rest of the day after Ed found them like that, and not for the rest of the night, either. Or the one after.

"Guess maybe I'm gonna have to work on your shoulders once we're outta here, huh," he says.

Mr. White turns gingerly onto his injured side so he can face Jesse, peering at him in confusion.

"It's bad enough you're stuck with being my substitute physician, let alone my massage therapist."

Jesse shrugs, scooting forward another fraction, draping his arm across Mr. White's hip; he's feeling too jittery about the overall situation to even care that he's not really thinking this through. "So what?"

"So, I'm unclear as to why you think it's acceptable to throw your life away," Mr. White sighs.

"Asshole, let me explain this to you since your brain's still way fucked up by the meds," Jesse says, getting right in Mr. White's face so that their noses almost touch. "I know you might not believe this, because, like, I know you've spent about as much time as I did for a while there convincing yourself that you're the bad guy, but I kinda _chose_ what happened to me every step of the way. And I guess the main difference here is that, like, you _are_ the bad guy, but I've more than proved what a dipshit I am for always choosing you. I'm an _adult_ dipshit, okay? Just 'cause you taught my ass in high school doesn't mean I didn't have some kind of agency in all of this. D'you know what rehab taught me, at least in part? Responsibility."

Mr. White doesn't say anything for a few seconds, and he doesn't blink, either. "Responsibility?"

"Yo, I own my shit now," says Jesse, shrugging, letting his fingers curl at the small of Mr. White's back. "And, hey, just my luck, you're part of that shit. I'm, like, kinda the boss of you now."

Mr. White's lips twitch, settling on amusement. "The _boss_ of me, huh? Is that right?"

"Yeah, Mr. White. So if I, like, I dunno, wanna do something as illogical as _this_ ," Jesse insists, tilting his head at just the right angle to set his lips firmly against Mr. White's, just resting them there, not quite kissing him, a challenge, "then it's my prerogative, you follow?"

"I don't get a say?" Walt asks, letting his lips move against Jesse's with deliberation. "None at all?"

"Nope," Jesse informs him, impulsively swiping his tongue across Mr. White's lower lip. "None."

"Then you'd better get on with teaching me whatever lesson this is, son," Mr. White says mildly.

"Son? _Son_? You son of a _bitch_ ," Jesse hisses, infuriated and improbably turned-on all in the same breath, and the decision to push this charade the rest of the way off the cliff is easy.

After a minute of shameless, sloppy making out, Jesse is stunned that neither one of them is getting hard from this just yet. They're biting at each other's lips, pressing into each other, and breathing into each other's mouths between fits of some serious tongue action. It's _nice_.

"How can you even be into this when you're feeling like crap?" Jesse huffs in amazement, upping the ante by shoving his thigh up harder between Mr. White's. "Also, you might not actually want this, which is, not gonna lie, part of why I suspect I, like, could kinda get off on it?"

Mr. White blinks, sleepy with painkillers and a little lust-hazed. "Do you hear me complaining?"

"Shit, no," Jesse sighs, nuzzling into Mr. White's top layers to get at his neck. "Shoulda listened to Wendy all those times, like she's totally seen enough freaks like you to know what's goin' on—"

"I would never," says Mr. White, his fingers uncurling between Jesse's shoulder blades, and for some reason Jesse _believes_ him, "have done this unless you'd indicated that you wanted—"

"Yeah, _and_ ," Jesse continues, not bothering to respond directly to what Mr. White's just said, biting down harder on Mr. White's jugular than he needs to, making the guy gasp and jerk against him, "that hit you took out on me was kinda this massive give-away on your part, doncha think?" He blinks back tears, sucking the spot harder, and then bites down again. He wants to make Mr. White answer for this, make him _feel_ it. "It's like if you can't have me, nobody else can?"

"You of all people should know I'm not the most adept at demonstrating affection," Walt murmurs, his breathing gone shaky while Jesse works on giving him what's hopefully the most vicious hickey of his life. "Besides, you may be the boss of me now, but you're still—"

"Nuh-uh," Jesse cuts him off, suddenly annoyed, giving Mr. White one more taste of teeth and, yeah, _damn_ , they're both kind of wound-up now. "Ain't yours unless I say so, asshole," he hisses, rolling out from under Mr. White's arm even though it's been cradling him oh-so-sweetly and shit.

"—you're still the one I chose, too," Mr. White continues quietly, letting him go, leaving it at that.

Jesse screws his eyes shut, fumbling off the edge of the mattress for the flashlight. He wants to touch himself _so bad_ right now that it isn't even funny, but he'd like it even more if Mr. White touched him, and that's even _less_ funny. His back's to the guy, and he listens as Mr. White rolls away with a harsh exhalation. Dude will probably just go back to sleep and leave Jesse halfway to blue balls and whatever the fuck else Jesse plans to do, which, now that he's found the flashlight, is relocate the bottle of Xanax Paz had given him and take a high enough dose to pass out.

 

* * *

 

Jesse wakes up to Mr. White shaking him so hard that his teeth are fucking rattling in his skull.

"...Jesse, _Jesse_!" Mr. White's gritting out, increasingly distressed. "Oh, thank _God_."

"Jesus, what'sa matter?" asks Jesse, yawning thickly, not so groggy that he doesn't notice how close Mr. White's looming, kneeling next to him on the mattress with his left palm braced against the pillow right alongside Jesse's cheek. He leans up and pecks Mr. White's chin, hazily remembering the fraught exchange they'd had. "Hey, guess I was bein' a douchebag not too long ago, like—"

For half a second, Mr. White looks like he can't decide whether to cry or to throttle Jesse, but he settles on pressing a kiss against the corner of Jesse's mouth. "Not too long ago?" asks Mr. White, incredulous, shifting away with a wince so he can lie back down. "You were completely unresponsive for about five full minutes. Do you even realize how long you've been asleep?"

"Nope," Jesse admits, yawning again, rolling over so he can snuggle up to Mr. White, because he's still just enough under the influence of those pills to want to conk right back out. "M'sorry."

"Around twelve hours," says Mr. White, flatly, letting Jesse latch onto him. "What did you take?"

"Fucking prescription," Jesse reassures him. "The stuff Paz gave me for, like, anxiety and shit."

"I woke up once a bit earlier and tried to wake you then," Mr. White replies. "You didn't budge, but I was too tired to panic. Went back to sleep myself. Hell, maybe I ought to take some of that."

"Hell _no_ , you got your painkillers," says Jesse, peevishly, nuzzling into Mr. White's chest. He's less in the mood to try his hand at seduction again, because look at how well _that_ had gone, and more in the mood to just cuddle the shit out of anything he can reach. "S'all for me."

"We should probably eat something," says Mr. White, rubbing Jesse's elbow where it rests against his chest. "Our menu for this long-haul includes granola bars, turkey jerky, and more granola bars."

"Is the jerky that weird tequila-lime-teriyaki artisan stuff you always buy?" Jesse asks dejectedly.

"Mesquite," Mr. White says, rubbing his way up to Jesse's shoulder. "Ed didn't give us a choice."

" _Mmm_ , that stuff's dope," Jesse says, making a grabby hand toward Mr. White's edge of the mattress, although his arm's gone to putty because of the attention Mr. White's lavishing on it.

"I won't ration anything out until we're sitting up like, as you phrased it, the adult dipshits we are."

"Well, _this_ dipshit's gonna eat the jerky," insists Jesse, disentangling himself from Mr. White so that he can sit up and punch at the pillows behind him till he's comfortable. "All of it."

"Fifty-fifty," Mr. White shoots back, sounding like he's back in good humor, struggling to sit up.

"Not by the new rules," Jesse reminds him, helping out till they're leaning into each other and, wow, kissing slow and easy this time like eating doesn't matter. "Jerky is boss food," he mumbles stupidly against Mr. White's mouth, kissing from there down to the side of his neck.

"We're both eating a balanced diet, and that's that," says Mr. White, reaching for the plastic bag.

While they eat in companionable silence, Jesse thinks about resuming what they've started. He thinks about the relative merits of pinning Mr. White down, unbuttoning his shirt, and tasting anything that's not covered by gauze. He changes his mind about that pretty quickly, though, because, on the down-side, neither one of them has showered in over twelve hours now.

Mr. White offers him a sip from the bottle of water he's opened, and Jesse takes a few desperate swallows. His mouth's dry because of the meds _and_ because he's thinking about getting laid while he's on the run from the law. Jesus _Christ_. If they weren't bad-ass before, they definitely are now. He tries to remember which Old West guys never got caught, although he knows he should be thinking of fugitives from modern times.

"Mr. White," he ventures, once they've finished the jerky and eaten several oat-and-honey granola bars each, once they're curled up warm and listless under the sleeping bags, "is this gonna work?"

"As long as we both manage to stay alive, it might," says Mr. White. "If I hadn't blown my cover, I very likely wouldn't have been found. And are you really going to keep calling me that?"

"I don't think I can start calling you Martin," Jesse sighs, fiddling with the buttons on the front of Mr. White's shirt. He's capable of thinking of the guy as Walt, but usually only if he's pissed off. He wonders if he ought to train himself out of that given he's gone rogue and decided he'd like to climb this asshole like a fucking _tree_. "Doing that in public's gonna be weird."

"Walt isn't such a dead give-away," says Mr. White, stilling Jesse's hand, caressing the backs of Jesse's fingers. "It's fewer syllables than Mr. White. Surely your lazy tongue can get behind that."

"Says who my tongue's lazy, asshole?" Jesse demands, letting his fingertips dig into Walt's belly a little, and, whoa, _yeah_. He turns the name over in his thoughts a few times, nuzzling into Walt's neck to lick at the same spot he'd left tender some hours before. " _Walt_ ," he adds.

"Jesse," Walt sighs, mouthing at the top of Jesse's head, almost a kiss. "You'll make an awful Carl."

"Did Mr. Ed take a pit-stop while we were asleep or what?" asks Jesse, irritably. "I need some air."

"He must have," replies Walt, darkly. "Otherwise, we probably would've experienced one by now." He switches on the flashlight, checking the cheap wristwatch Ed had given him. "Twenty hours since we left Albuquerque, give or take. At that rate, we've got between thirteen and fifteen left."

"So I was thinking about fugitives who never got caught, which is why I asked you that question," Jesse admits, uneasy, "but I couldn't think of any. I didn't pay enough attention in history class."

"Aribert Heim and James Bulger come to mind," says Walt, nuzzling Jesse's hair again, making Jesse shiver, "neither of whom I can say I admire. Bulger _was_ finally caught this year."

"Yeah, 'cause like the only criminal you admire is yourself," Jesse retorts, feeling pretty drowsy.

"I don't know," Walt replies, pitched into a coughing fit that sends chills down Jesse's spine. "I wouldn't have formed such an attachment to the one lazing in my arms if that were the case."

"You got me there," Jesse mumbles, closing his eyes, too tired to even fight Walt's assertion.

The next fourteen hours and change are _wretched_. Jesse only sleeps for another four of them, by which time he wakes to find Walt withdrawn and obviously in pain even if he won't admit to it. He lays Walt out, switches on all three flashlights, and unbuttons Walt's shirt. He's not bleeding through his dressings or anything like that, but he _is_ clammy and overheated like he might be running a temperature. Jesse swears, grabs one of the flashlights, and goes rummaging through their medical supplies down near the foot of the trailer where all of the money's sitting around in the same luggage the Nazis had put it in. He finds the vial of Keflex, relieved.

"Gotta get, like, a double dose of this in you to start," Jesse mutters, uncapping the water bottle.

"I'm accustomed to self-medicating with antibiotics," says Walt, irritably, shoving the pills in his mouth before taking a swallow when Jesse held the water to his lips. "It might not be an infection."

"Healing wound, possible fever, close quarters," Jesse says, putting everything away in his canvas tote-bag with the Xanax so it's much closer to hand. "I'm not takin' any chances, all right?"

"Even if I beat this cancer, which seems unlikely to me regardless of the lack of _any_ recent data pointing either way," Walt replies gravely, "I _will_ die much sooner than later."

"You don't know that," Jesse tells Walt, buttoning his shirt back up. "You don't know _shit_."

"I know that I won't have nearly as much time with you as I'd like," Walt says with earnest regret.

"If this is you bringing up that perfect moment crap again, cut it out," Jesse says, burrowing back under the sleeping bags next to him. "You haven't lived too long. You live as long as you live." He knows, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that his aspirations of keeping Walt alive out of vengeance amount to the biggest lie he's ever told himself. Maybe it was true in the moment, but _now_?

"I'd really, _really_ like a couple of those pills you have," Walt says somewhat desperately.

Jesse gets up again, rummaging in his bag. He hands a couple of Xanax tablets to Walt, and, after having some more of the water that's left, hands that off to him, too. The entire situation's far too reminiscent of drugging Walt's coffee. Jesse manages to hold off tears until Walt's fallen asleep.

Ten hours later, he's still awake with Walt's head in his lap as the truck stops. Ed rolls up the door.

"Hey, kiddo," he says, backlit by afternoon sun, offering Jesse a tentative wave. "We're here."

Jesse nods, running his fingers through Walt's hair. "Hey," he says. "Mr. White. _Walt_."

" _Hmmm_ , what?" mutters Walt, groggily, groaning when he tries to sit up. "Jesse...?"

"We're here," Jesse echoes dazedly, pointing at the green world outside. "I smell the ocean."

  

* * *

 

Jesse runs his fingers along the damp, cracked ceiling plaster, checking the water damage's full extent.

"This place is a fixer-upper for sure," he says grimly, poking his index finger straight into the pulpy mess, brushing his hands off on his jeans. He turns on his aluminum-ladder perch, staring grimly down at Walt, who's still in bed with a book. "I'm gonna have to learn a whole new level of DIY."

"For what we paid, I'm impressed with the property's location," Walt admits. "Condition, not so much." He wrinkles his nose, and Jesse can't help but think for a second that he really does look like somebody else: clean-shaven, hair trimmed, different glasses. Sickly, but kind of handsome.

They'd spent their first forty-eight hours in the tumble-down cottage taking turns in the leaky shower, yawning their way into clean underwear, and sleeping off the trip. There were two bedrooms, but neither one of them had given the tiny guest-type deal a second look. On their first morning, the day before, Jesse had dragged Walt into town looking for a barber shop. He and Ed had convinced Walt to shave before they left, but that didn't change the fact Walt's hair had gone feral. Now, with a trim and some combing, he wasn't going to turn heads.

Jesse backs down the ladder, barefoot, in baggy jeans and the Against Me! t-shirt he'd found in one of the Gloucester thrift shops they'd hit up after haircuts. They're technically residents of Rockport, Massachusetts, but there's nothing actually _in_ Rockport but seafood restaurants, souvenir shops, and this wacky dude called Captain Steve who sells rare seashells to tourists.

"Speaking of fixer-uppers," he says, climbing back onto the bed, "I hope the car doesn't die on us."

"What you see is what you get," says Walt, setting his book aside. "If it does, we'll buy a new one."

"Bet you never thought you'd see the ass-end of New England again this soon, huh?" Jesse asks, flipping back the covers so he can crawl in. They've literally been too tired to do anything except sleep and explore their surroundings, but Jesse's starting to feel restless. He studies Walt's face again, this time up close, reaching to tug off his glasses. Walt doesn't resist, but he's confused.

"I'd assumed Ed would steer clear of it, but maybe it's the same principle as your logic the night we escaped," Walt says, taking his glasses out of Jesse's hands, setting them on top of the book. "This is a wealthy area. It hasn't been a haven for ne'er-do-wells since the seventeen-hundreds."

"Ne'er-do-wells," Jesse repeats, settling into the curve of Walt's left arm. "What, like pirates?"

Walt nods, lost momentarily in reminiscence. "My son's school arranged a field trip to Salem one year, sixth grade or thereabouts, and Junior was devastated he couldn't travel with the group. I took him the summer after, just the two of us. He was more fascinated by the witch trials, but the local history of sea-faring commerce was what grabbed my attention. Marblehead, one of those towns just up the road? Might as well have been Tortuga, or at least that's what the tour guides said."

"We were the complete opposite of pirates," replies Jesse, pensively. "Desert everywhere." If Walt's cheerfully going to continue spouting dull reminiscences, he might as well make his move, take the guy by surprise. While Walt goes on about how the whole witch-hysteria got imported up the coast by ships sailing north from the Carolinas, Jesse spends a few minutes idly running his hand over Walt's belly through his t-shirt. Walt doesn't flinch when Jesse strokes his bandage, so Jesse takes that as a sign. He shifts into Walt's lap, setting his fingers against Walt's lips.

"Oh, I'm sorry," says Walt, sarcastically, but his mouth molds to the touch. "Was I boring you?"

"We could be doing something a lot more interesting than discuss local history," Jesse says, replacing his fingers with his mouth. It's easy to let his tongue push past Walt's lips, only there's a sharp new thrill to it because they aren't shut away in the stuffy dark. "What d'you think?"

In response, Walt kisses him back. It's slow and leisurely at first, like, totally fucking _lethal_ how fast it melts Jesse's insides, but Walt suddenly freezes under him. Jesse pulls back, frowning.

"Do you honestly want to spend the rest of your foreseeable future with a man who, by all most recent accounts, is still dying? Who, if you recall, was responsible for the complete and utter _ruin_ of not only you, but also several of your loved ones? For God's sake, Jesse. Why go to the trouble? Why forgive me? Why even believe I might make it? I don't even know if the chemo doses Ed administered during my time in New Hampshire did any good. Dr. Goodman can't just order a PET scan to find out," Walt seethes, raking his fingers through his hair. "I can't just go to a hospital."

"What did they say it was, like—a shadow? Wasn't that the word you used?" Jesse says, keeping his tone measured, hoping to disarm and lull him. "My point is that you've been on the run so long without check-ups that you don't even _know_. Sure, yeah, you were weak and coughing and shit, but I'd bet all your money it's because you were starved just like me, only you're dumb as fuck 'cause you were doing it to _yourself_." He lets it heat up now, catching his fingers mid-glide through his own hair: an unconscious mirroring. "As for the other stuff, hey, like I tried killing you or whatever a couple times, too. Does that mean we ever learned to steer clear? Nope. We're completely _fucked_ for each other, Walt. Don't you get it? Of course your stubborn ass gets it, but you just won't admit it, will you? Every time I walk away, every time _you_ walk away, every time you _send_ me away, every time you _run_ —" Fuck it, he can't breathe now; he's already got tears streaming down his cheeks, like, fat lot of good it's done him trying to play the tough-guy ever since they escaped New Mexico by the skin of their teeth. "It's gravity, asshole, or entropy, or— _Jesus_. It's blood like fucking _magnets_. I'm A-negative, you're A-positive. End of story."

Walt loosens his grasp on his own hair, his hands drifting in the direction of Jesse's shoulders. It looks like Jesse has hit a nerve, because Walt's always been weirdly susceptible to Jesse in hysterics. Furthermore, Jesse fucking _knows_ it. Walt kisses Jesse's flooding eyelids like some penitent kissing the carved gaze of a saint, and that's exactly where Jesse wants him. _Romeo and Juliet_ level shit, because, hey: he'd always been better at English class anyhow, and who's to say he's wrong for choosing Friar Laurence?

"This is all I can give you," Walt whispers, thumbing along Jesse's tear-slicked jaw. "What's left."

"I'm yours," Jesse says, melting into him, because, fuck, he's just so tired of fighting; he's just so tired of fighting, and he _wants_ this, has wanted it maybe since the first instant he laid eyes on that clear _miracle_ of a shard he'd held up with a pair of tweezers before his disbelieving eyes. "I'm yours, asshole, so, I don't know, just, like... _take_ me already!"

" _Shhh_ , Jesse," Walt soothes, mouthing a kiss against Jesse's temple, running all ten fingers hesitantly through Jesse's hair. "What do you want me to do? No offense, but that's...open-ended."

"I don't wanna feel so fucking _alone_ anymore," Jesse gasps, too ashamed to say something like _I want you to make me your bitch like in the good old days, only in the clingy-disgustingly-possessive-sex kinda way instead of in the clingy-disgustingly-possessive-meth kinda way_.

"You're not alone," says Walt, kissing Jesse's cheek this time, and, God, who died and made him Casanova? "I'm here," he adds, kissing Jesse's other cheek, and then pulls back to look at Jesse with eyes full of something enough like heartbreak for Jesse to know that, yeah, it's for real. This is as close as he'll ever get to Walter fucking White begging his forgiveness, and, somehow, it's enough.

"Open-ended," Jesse mumbles, tipping forward against Walt's shoulder, not-so-subtly wiping his nose on Walt's t-shirt. "Shit, I don't even know. Ain't like I've ever done this with a guy before unless you count, like, that time I got blasted and sucked face with Badger's hot cousin from Tucson or somewhere. Never saw him again, never had to like...talk about it, or any of that awkward shit."

Walt's still stroking Jesse's hair with one hand, but he's also caressing his way down Jesse's back with the other in a way that suggests he might be willing to take the lead just like Jesse's asking him to. "You might've guessed this by now, but I wasn't involved with just Gretchen back in the day."

"Thank fucking _God_ somebody here knows what to do with two dicks," Jesse mumbles with a nervous laugh. He means it as a joke, means it to lighten the mood, but Walt is looking at him with a kind of fierce tenderness that makes Jesse think they're both going to be naked in no time. He catches Walt's mouth, moaning into it, the sound unbearably needy even to his own ears.

Walt hums, letting Jesse burn off the burst of anxiety. "I'll let you in on a secret," he whispers against Jesse's lips, skimming his thumb along Jesse's waistband, working it underneath Jesse's shirt, rubbing Jesse's skin. "It's not that different from what you do with two of anything else."

" _Asshole_ ," Jesse groans, thrilled with the brush against his lower back, shoving his hips forward against Walt's without invitation. "Okay, so if that's how it's gonna be, you can start by, like, how about shoving your hand down the _front_ of my pants instead of the back?"

"I thought you'd never ask," says Walt, his voice low and rough like Jesse hasn't heard it in _way_ too long. He unfastens Jesse's jeans as if he's had plenty of practice, and his hand slips smoothly down the front of Jesse's boxers. It's simultaneously comforting and hot as _fuck_.

"Oh my _God_ ," Jesse groans, embarrassed how fast his eyes snap shut, but, _seriously_ , Walt knows just what to do with his hand. He pushes into those warm, careful strokes for a solid minute, catching his lower lip between his teeth. He opens his eyes, hoping to see Walt out of his mind with want, and he's _not_ disappointed. Curling forward, Jesse tries to get him to move faster, latching onto Walt's earlobe. "How 'bout you take 'em off?"

Walt stops stroking Jesse, the _bastard_ , leaning forward to nip at Jesse's earlobe in kind. "Do you mean mine or yours?" he asks, a breathy, heated exhalation. "Or hadn't you decided?"

"Oh, fuck you," Jesse mutters, twisting out of Walt's lap just long enough to get the job done himself. Once he's kicked his shit to the floor, he half expects to have to yank Walt's boxers off him, but what he finds when he crawls back over to settle again is that Walt's already naked.

"Not this time," says Walt, as mildly as ever, but there's a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth as he molds his palms to Jesse's hipbones before tugging Jesse's t-shirt up and over his head.

Jesse can't think of anything to say to that, already leaning forward again, desperate for a kiss. He could start itemizing the entire laundry list of stuff he wants to try with Walt, but that would be counterproductive given that this moment is the one he's been patiently working up to. Literally all he's doing is shoving himself against Walt's belly, and skin-on-skin feels so good he can't hold back.

Walt's hands are gentle in his hair, _so_ gentle, and that does it.

"Mr. _White_ ," he chokes, too late to give warning; he's coming all over his belly and Walt's and even Walt's bandage. He shudders into full contact with Walt's chest, eyes squeezed shut, _ecstatic_ ; he wonders if he's imagining the way Walt, breathing fast, is winding his arms tightly around Jesse's waist, hitching him close. "Walt," he amends, sheepish, as his pleasure ebbs.

Walt doesn't comment, catching Jesse's mouth in a bruising kiss, stroking Jesse's forearms as Jesse makes enough space between them to wrap both hands around Walt's erection. Walt comes gasping.

They rest like that for a while, with Jesse's head tucked into the crook of Walt's neck, not even bothering to clean up. There are about a thousand practical things they should be doing, and Jesse's feet are starting to cramp because he's got his toes jammed into the mattress. Walt kisses down the line of Jesse's jaw, seeking his lips again. Jesse lifts his head, nuzzling into the contact with a sigh.

"I'm so tired I can't remember what my name is supposed to be," he mumbles, drowsily content.

"You're Jesse Pinkman," murmurs Walt, like it's some kind of heretic prayer, "and I'm yours, too."


	2. Matchsticks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  ** _[Magnets](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6131326)_** is still, as far as I'm concerned, primarily a stand-alone, but I ended up with a couple weeks' worth of notes for ficlet addenda. This is one of three that will tack on as chapters. They're not mandatory from reader-perspective as such; from writer-perspective, I need to write this virus out of my system. This picks up right where _Magnets_ leaves off and moves forward.

Jesse forgets about the crumbling ceiling plaster; in his shoes, who fucking _wouldn't_? Of course, he's got two ceiling-plaster memories now. At least he can de-prioritize one of them. His residual night terrors about the other are bad enough.

That first evening, once Jesse's cleaned them up and fetched Walt more painkillers, they sleep for a while. Jesse likes having his head buzzed again, he realizes, because he can feel Walt's lips and breath against his scalp as they drift off. When he wakes up, it's almost 10pm, and Walt's stroking the dragon tattoo (there's a joke in there _somewhere_ ) on Jesse's chest and watching him with this expression that's so besotted Jesse feels dizzy for a second before pulling Walt down into a kiss. They move against each other slow and easy, Walt on top this time.

When Jesse comes, it's a blissful shock, harder and better than hours before. He's a clingy, slightly teary mess by the time Walt does, too, and then Walt's kissing all over Jesse's forehead and the scar down the bridge of his nose and asking what Jesse wants for dinner. They shower and venture out even though Walt's still kind of spacey; turns out Gloucester's got this dive bar called the Crow's Nest that's got killer buffalo wings, a jukebox, and a billiards table. Walt watches Jesse shoot pool against nobody, lingering over his Diet Coke while Exile's _Kiss You All Over_ plays in the background. It's past midnight when they get home. They're both so exhausted they just fall into bed.

Just an average night in the life, it turns out. Just like, the next morning, Jesse wakes screaming from one of his endless reservoir of nightmares; just like Walt's learning this shit's par for the course and holds him while he cries it out. Just like Walt gives Jesse head for the first time a few mornings after that and—as frustrating, yet bizarrely touching as it is—won't let Jesse reciprocate.

Just like Walt won't let Jesse start to administer chemotherapy, the _asshole_ , opting instead to research a bunch of alternative therapies online. Hemp oil sounds totally viable, though, once Walt gets Jesse to calm down and read through the shit, too. He knows about Cellect-Budwig and cesium chloride methods because there'd been like a month or so in which Aunt Ginny just hadn't shut up about wanting to try one or the other (but not both, because _lethal_ ). Jesse's dad had talked her out of ditching the medically-approved treatment plan on grounds that the other shit sounded way too unpredictable and wouldn't be covered by insurance. Jesse feels Walt's chin come to rest lightly on top of his head and asks, shakily, which way Walt wants to go. Walt asks for time to think about it, because time, however limited, is what they've got.

A few nights later, before Jesse can ask if Walt's made any kind of decision, there's an epic downpour that wakes them from sticky, content slumber less on account of the distant thunder and more because the bedroom ceiling is _gushing_. It's six-thirty in the goddamn morning and Walt is marching around the bedroom swearing because he can't find the phone-book _or_ the portable phone; meanwhile, Jesse regrets not being able to watch and mock the shit out of him because he remembers there's a cobweb-covered, filthy old bucket under the kitchen sink. 

By the time Jesse's fetched it and placed it under the leak, Walt's already on the phone with some poor unsuspecting contractor who's made the mistake of answering their business line before 7am. The next thing Walt does, after assuring the job will start approximately _yesterday_ thanks to the figure he's offering as compensation, is call some fancy hotel he's dug up in the Yellow Pages. Jesse's almost disappointed he won't get to do this job himself, but Walt coming back to bed on a smug, satisfied power trip because he's gotten shit done isn't a bad consolation prize.

They move into the Quarterdeck Inn by the Sea on Granite Street about forty-eight hours later. Walt's somehow wrangled them this suite called Neptune's Car that has a private deck and ocean views out of not one, but _two_ of its massive windows. There are elegant, stripey damask chairs that Aunt Ginny would've raved about, plus a marble-topped wrought iron coffee table about which, on spotting it, Jesse thinks, _I want to learn how to make that_. The carpet is disturbingly plush, and the bed is a size Jesse doesn't even know the name of. 

Once he's dropped his luggage and stopped gawking, it's too easy to push Walt back onto the perfect duvet and pile of throw-pillows hiding the regular pillows. He's all over the guy with kisses and a hand down the front of Walt's jeans; he's got Walt's dick out and between his lips before Walt even knows what's hit him. Jesse's real mistake is asking him, about forty-five minutes later in the undressed, bedclothes-askew afterglow, if he's made up his mind about treatment options. Walt says nothing, holds Jesse close, offers a kiss by way of apology.

Jesse gets dressed, wordless with anger, and stalks out to walk the rocky beach till he's cooled off. 

They have dinner back at the Crow's Nest because they're predictable like that, and Walt kicks Jesse's ass at pool. Jesse doesn't know the song on the jukebox this time, so he asks Walt what it's called instead of pressing the treatment issue again like he wants to. Walt says he doesn't know the name, but that he's always loved the song the times he's heard it. Jesse checks the jukebox tag and finds _Baby Blue_ (by some band called Badfinger, which earns an amused twitch of his lips) to be a disappointingly obvious answer given the super-discernible lyrics. They finish eating, head back to the Inn, and fuck like they're making the world's first attempt at physical apology. _There's something to be said for make-up sex when you're both shit with words_ , Jesse thinks, watching Walt sleep by a swath of light cutting through the sheer curtains.

It doesn't help Jesse's nightmares any, this hellish state of not-knowing-what's-next.

The one he wakes from this time isn't Jack and company kicking the shit out of him or one of those twisted-as-fuck times Todd had treated him almost like he was an actual human being; it's an all-too-probable scenario in which he's sitting next to Walt, intubated and hooked up to life-support machinery, in a hospital bed. Walt's hand between Jesse's is limp, skeletal, and Walt, sunken eyes closed, is beyond speech.

Jesse can't stop his tears—it's not like he ever can, but _especially_ not now—and the open window behind him lets in what feels like a flawless Albuquerque breeze. Someone's car radio in the parking lot below them croons a song he thinks he knows ( _Didn't know you'd think that I'd forget or I'd regret_ ), or maybe it's one he's just learned.

Jesse's crying so hard into his pillow that he thinks he might suffocate, but Walt's already got him by the shoulder, rolling him over, hushing him. Walt manhandles Jesse till he's sobbing against Walt's chest instead, rubbing Jesse's back. It's not like either of them bothered to get dressed before passing out. Jesse feels like an idiot for getting snot all over the place while they're naked.

"Jesse," Walt says, pressing one of those not-quite-kisses right against Jesse's scalp. "Shhh, _Jesse_." Walt's figured out that Jesse thrives on hearing his name like this, soothing, not with those shades of frustration and fury to which he'd grown accustomed. "Tell me about it?"

"I don't have to tell you what you already know," Jesse seethes, bringing one fist into contact with Walt's shoulder for emphasis, but probably not hard enough to bruise him. "You're dying on me."

Walt snorts like he does when he thinks Jesse's said something absurd, but he muffles the sound against Jesse's forehead, mouthing apologetic kisses instead. "That might not be true," he says patiently, one strong hand—and, yeah, he's stronger by the day now that he's eating and everything. "I'm not even coughing as frequently anymore. That's an improvement, right?"

"I'm not gonna feel better about this till you say you'll try _something_ , okay?" Jesse retorts, squirming his way up Walt's body so he can tuck his chin over Walt's shoulder and stare at the sea through that gap in the curtains. "Like, no chemo, I get it, cool. I don't wanna watch anyone go through that shit again, not any more than you wanna _do_ it again. Just—some of the other shit can't hurt, you know? Worse comes to worst, it's totally bogus and nothing changes. But you're a scientist, so you can't deny the placebo effect and positive thinking and everything aren't real. You can't tell me you wouldn't get _something_ out of it." Jesse uncurled his fingers against Walt's bicep. "Hey, uh, how about you say something? _Walt_? Ain't gonna hand you a Talking Pillow or whatever the hell it was you told me about. That shit's messed up."

"I know this can't be easy, but can I _please_ ask you to be patient?" Walt begs; Jesse can't help but shiver, because Walt's tone is a mix of desperation and sympathy that he has _never_ heard before. "I need more time to carry out my research, a week or two at most. I was never the one looking into this before. I left everything to Skyler. I was too preoccupied with the business. With _you_ , Jesse." His tone turns guilty. "With trying to keep us safe."

"Yeah, and look how well that worked out," Jesse mutters against Walt's collarbone, giving Walt's shin a solid kick, satisfied to hear him grunt in pain. "I'm the one in charge now, remember?"

"Yes, but would you grant me the courtesy of doing with my body as I see fit?" Walt asks, trailing his fingertips down Jesse's spine; it's unfair how quickly Jesse responds. "Just like I grant you the courtesy of doing so with yours, in which, believe me, I'm grateful you see fit to include—"

"Yeah, I get your fucking point," Jesse sighs, biting Walt's shoulder, pleased when it draws a gasp from Walt. "You can do your damn research." He considers the fact that he's hard against Walt's hip, the process no doubt expedited by Walt's hands cupping his ass so that he's pressed close. "You can also, like, shut up and do something useful with your mouth."

Walt bites the crook of Jesse's neck, and, _beautiful_ , that one's probably going to leave a mark. They're scarcely a week into this and Walt's already worked out how to maneuver Jesse into any position he finds convenient with minimal effort ( _So what else is new?_ Jesse thinks, checking in with himself, relieved to find that he's more jaded-slash-smug than bitter). The saving grace is that it's always, _always_ with an eye to Jesse's benefit, just like the current scenario in which Walt's already got one of Jesse's legs propped up on his shoulder and isn't wasting any time kissing from Jesse's ankle upward. Jesse closes his eyes, tipping his head back as he exhales.

"If you're gonna be all slow about this," he gasps as Walt nips at his inner thigh before moving on to the other leg, "maybe you ought to reconsider. Just, you know. FYI. Clock's ticking."

" _Mmm_ ," Walt agrees, proving it's easy to get Jesse in his mouth from where he is.

"Fuck fuck _fuck_ ," Jesse hisses, still finding the combination of how it feels and _who this is_ almost too much to bear. It's like Walt never forgets anything he's set out to master, ever, and Jesse's always going to be the one either taking damage or soaking up benefits, no matter what.

Walt pulls off after about thirty seconds of impressive upping-the-ante, frowning at Jesse, thank _God_ , like he's more than just a source of endless wrong answers. "Is that too much?"

Jesse hiccups and opens his eyes, finding them watery. "Maybe. Kinda? Not sure... _I_..."

Walt neatly removes Jesse's ankles from where he'd set them with precision just moments before, leaving Jesse's legs to their inelegant sprawl _only_ as long as it takes him to settle against Jesse in such a way that he's not crushing him. Aside from having proved himself some kind of meth-cooking savant, that's probably Walt's hidden superpower. "Better?" he asks, cautious.

"Yeah," Jesse whispers, pretty all right with Walt drawing his knees up to clasp Walt's thighs.

And for fuck's sake, all Walt's doing now is kissing him, and Jesse's coming and coming and _coming_. He loses count of the seconds, shaking unctontrollably, failing to bite back the sounds he's been making, which are terrible and desperate and, okay, he's basically sobbing.

"Sweetheart," Walt's whispering mindlessly, maybe even coming down from his own orgasm judging by the extent of the mess; Jesse can hardly believe his ears. "It's all right, it's—"

Mouthing at Walt's neck, Jesse's too dazed, too goddamn loved-up to take offense. " _Jesus_."

"Don't cry," Walt murmurs, kissing Jesse's eyelids. "I mean, unless that's—how good it feels?"

"You feel way fucking better than you _should_ ," says Jesse, with a derisive laugh. "Fuck."

Walt kisses him on the mouth again, teeth catching at Jesse's lower lip. "What else can I do?"

"Not stop sucking my dick next time," Jesse blurts before he can think better of it. "Yeah. That."

"You were upset," Walt replies, running his fingers through Jesse's hair. "You wanted me to," he continues, impressively circumspect, knuckles grazing Jesse's temple. "Unless I misunderstood?"

"I don't know," Jesse replies, closing his eyes in frustration, realizing he's the textbook definition of exhausted. "Who'd have ever thought _I'd_ get _your_ ass to follow directions, huh?"

"You're the boss of me now, remember?" says Walt. His tone's absolutely dripping fond irony.

"Yeah, and like don't you forget it," Jesse yawns, burrowing more snugly into him. "Asshole."

He waits until he's sure Walt's asleep to get up and fetch the bathrobe he'd left draped over one of the chairs. He thinks of Aunt Ginny again, the upbeat bad-ass biker chick with a penchant for kitschy interior decorating version of her he'd known before the cancer, as he studies the upholstery pattern. He'd promised her some chairs and shit, hadn't he, in celebration for having gone into remission?

Yeah, some deal. She'd gotten worse, and so had his habit. Hab _its_. 

He tugs his pack of cigarettes and a box of the hotel's branded matches out of the robe pocket. He opens the sliding glass door, wandering out onto the deck. _It's almost October_ , he thinks, lighting his cigarette. He lets the matchstick fall, watching its progress, and then lights another.

He hasn't got a new lighter yet, not after everything, because he still wishes he'd taken Badger's.


	3. Marigolds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Milarca, who (as usual) said a lot of things that prompted me to linger. Jesse's tattoos get lots of attention in various stories out there, I've noticed, but it's always the dragon and the scorpion. The skull between his shoulder blades seems neglected.

The Crow's Nest on a Monday night isn't exactly what you'd call a happening place.

Jesse flicks the words off his whisky-slick tongue, _happening place_ , less than a whisper, as he lines up his shot. If the cue goes where he wants it to, the remaining six balls will sink neat as anything. "Happening place," he repeats, just a little louder, and takes his shot.

And, right on the heels of it, he quite literally takes _another shot_. He's three or four down, maybe, trying to understand why Walt likes this Dimple Pinch shit so much. He'd been shaky as hell showing up at the bar furious and alone a few hours earlier, but now, he's too tipsy to care.

All he'd wanted was a drive over to Salem to check out the zoo it's rumored that place turns into on Halloween, like, was that really so difficult for Walt to wrap his head around? They could've gotten costumes and masks, the whole nine yards, prying eyes shut out, but _no_. Walt wouldn't hear of taking that kind of risk, and anyway, he hates crowds. So does Jesse, fair enough, but he hadn't been about to say that in the middle of an argument so pointless that it made his head hurt. He curses as exactly _none_ of the balls end up in _any_ of the fucking holes.

"Asshole," Jesse hisses as his back pocket begins to vibrate, fishing out the glassy white slab and glaring at it like it's done something to personally offend him. Walt had given him the slip a couple of weeks ago one day when he'd slept in way late, gone to Boston, and come home with these, these freaking _things_. Apple is hot shit or something, he gets it. This model is called the 4S. Who cares? He doesn't even know what the _S_ stands for. Some creepy voice-activated search function with a bizarre name, which he refuses to use.

His iPhone screen's lit up with a message: _Where the hell are you? It's almost midnight._

Jesse sways to one side, almost dropping the gadget, missing the equipment stand by a mile. His stick clatters to the floor, which makes him jump. He almost drops the phone again. The screen lights up a second time, so he rubs the side of his face, shaking a little, and squints at it.

 _Answer me_ , Walt texts, and then, somehow angrier even though there are no emoticons or emojis involved, _You're being foolish._

Jesse successfully punches in his passcode on the third try, checking the time at the top of the display before thumbing the Messages icon. It's 11:39pm, so Halloween is almost fucking over and they've probably missed their chance to go gawk. Looking at the time makes the drunken slurry that's currently his thoughts slide onto the subject of watches, and, whoa, it's never occurred to him till now that he hasn't seen Walt wearing the sweet-ass TAG Heuer Monaco he'd given Walt for his birthday.

In a haze of rising fury, he clumsily types: _where's your damn watch? you never wear it._

Jesse literally watches two full minutes tick by on the clock before Walt responds with, _Why is that even relevant? Where are you?_

"Not many places I can go," Jesse mutters wearily, finishing the remaining shot's worth in his glass before slamming it back on the edge of the pool table. He types: _come find me, bitch._ Then, he wipes his mouth on the back of his hand, brain angrily reeling back on-topic. He follows that up with, _you know what fucking watch, like do i have to spell it out for your lazy ass?_

Walt responds in less than two seconds. _Are you drunk? High? Where ARE you, Jesse?_

Jesse snickers, his thumbs striking the screen hard as he says, _nooo shit, of course i'm drunk._

 _Don't leave the bar_ , Walt replies. _Car's still here. On my way. What did you do, take a cab?_

Glaring, Jesse bites his lip, tempted to order more scotch. He says, _no, dumbass, i walked._

 _That's a thirty-minute walk_ , Walt points out, kind of dangerous given he must be driving.

The couple at the bar, dumpy townie forty-somethings, are giving him the side-eye. Nosy fucks.

Jesse turns his back on them, plodding his way over to the jukebox as he thinks about what to say next. If Walt still hasn't made up his goddamn mind about cancer treatment shit, he sure as hell isn't going to tell Jesse what happened to the five-thousand-dollar watch. Jesse needs a new strategy. He fumbles fifty cents into the machine, flips a few selections, punches a not-so-random number.

_hey, you better get here quick. kinda lonely. want another drink. jukebox playing our song._

That's bullshit, of course. They don't have a song. They have a few tracks that seem to haunt them, though, so Jesse shoves coins into the jukebox till he runs out. Three songs ought to do it. Time-killer, something to crush the couple's laughter and the low hum of the TV.

Jesse doesn't really even _like_ this first one because it keeps turning up in his nightmares.

 _I shouldn't text while I'm driving_ , Walt sends, and then, immediately, _What song?_

Jesse types unsteadily, leaning with his forearms braced against the glass of the machine, _that really sad one about baby blues or some shit, what do i know. it's a million years old like you._

 _Haven't heard any complaints from you about my age in a while_ , Walt writes back, coy.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Jesse breathes in through his nostrils and laughs at that, sound fracturing against the barrier of his clenched teeth. He says, _well yeah, no, why would i?_ He adds a winky-face, because if his plan is to flirt the information out of Walt, he'd better get cooking.

 _That's what I thought_ , Walt replies, and, wow, son of a bitch, he's smug. _5 minutes_.

Jesse digs the heel of his free hand into his right eye, yawning. He's just drunk enough that he's probably in no shape to pull this off, but the song's almost over, and the next one'll start soon.

_this couple down here's staring at me from behind, think they got a thing for what they see._

_Is that so_ , comes Walt's next message, warningly terse. _And what are you thinking?_

Jesse runs his tongue along his lower lip, typing, _think you need to show em who's whose._

 _Your grammar's impressive given the state you're in_ , Walt texts. He must be at a stoplight.

Jesse smirks at his phone before tapping out, _oh, you have no idea what state i'm in, baby._

 _2 minutes_ , Walt sends back, the speed of it downright frantic. _Don't you dare leave._

"Where the fuck else would I go?" Jesse retorts aloud, and then types, _and risk missing you?_

 _Do you? Miss me?_ Walt sends after a full minute, which is so desperate it's almost cute.

Jesse shakes his head, realizes he's hit the wrong number for the second song and some sappy oldie he can't remember the name of—oh, yeah, here comes the chorus. _Stand by Me_ is playing.

 _Maybe I do_ , he replies, with extra effort now, _and maybe I don't. Where's the watch?_

When Walt doesn't answer for like two straight minutes, Jesse shoves his phone back in his pocket and stands there yawning some more into the palms of his hands. His brilliant plan is failing, and there's not a damn thing he can do about it. Wrong side of midnight now. November first.

 _Día de Muertos_ , he thinks, remembering how Combo used to say it. _Petals everywhere_.

He must've begun to nod off, because he shudders awake, gasping, to hands on his shoulders.

"I left it on top of a pay phone at a gas station," Walt breathes in Jesse's ear, "because dead men don't need watches." He runs his hands from Jesse's shoulders down to his elbows, squeezing.

"Yeah, well, here's a news flash, Walt," says Jesse, thickly, shivering again. "You ain't dead yet."

Just as _Stand by Me_ flips over to something Jesse's sure he didn't pick, Walt manhandles him around as careful as you please, peering into Jesse's eyes. "Jesse, did you take—"

Jesse uses the leverage of Walt's hands on his hips to go up on tiptoe, kissing him filthy and deep so that he'll taste all of the evidence he could possibly ask for. "Whisky and smokes, asshole," he says.

Walt backs Jesse against the jukebox for a second like he might be furious, but they're pressed up flush, close enough for Jesse to realize that, shit, his stunt's actually worked. Way too well, even.

"Do you have any idea how unwise it would be for us to make a scene," Walt murmurs against Jesse's temple, backing down a bit, working a hand underneath Jesse's shirt just enough to rest it against the small of Jesse's back. Walt's body is shielding him from the onlookers at the bar, and that's intentional, so Jesse feels pretty all right about this. "Are you still upset about earlier?"

"Maybe, maybe not," replies Jesse, stubbornly, pleased that Walt's other hand is on his hip and he's kind of swaying him to [the music, which Jesse still doesn't recognize because it's in Spanish](https://spanishpoplyrics.wordpress.com/2013/10/01/he-venido-by-los-zafiros-2/)—somebody's tenor voice, really nice, and he's only getting like every fourth word. "Like, are _you_?"

Walt shakes his head, leaning in for a kiss that's pushing the indecency envelope _twice_ as hard as the one Jesse's just given him. "You shouldn't be here alone," he murmurs, low and even.

"Then are you gonna take me home or what?" Jesse asks, sliding fingers into Walt's back pockets.

"If that's what you want," Walt says, satisfyingly breathless as he stifles a cough, "then yes, I am."

Jesse lapses into silence while Walt walks them out of the bar, sagging into Walt's side even though he feels less fuzzy than he had before Walt arrived. He flashes the couple at the bar a glance while they pass, but they're too busy talking over their beers. The bartender gives him a nod.

"We shouldn't get too friendly with them," Walt says once they're outside, unlocking their clunker of a car with the key-fob button. "We've got to blend in as locals, I understand that, but it's a risk—"

" _Everything's_ a risk, Walt," Jesse snaps, letting Walt open the passenger-side door for him.

Walt gets in the driver's side while Jesse fiddles with his seatbelt. "I'm sorry about earlier," he says.

"Okay," Jesse sighs, watching Walt start the ignition. "Maybe it'd be cool to go for the weekend."

"The house _does_ still smell like paint," replies Walt, steering them into the street. "And I didn't like leaving the Quarterdeck any more than you did. Maybe a weekend trip's the ticket."

"I hear they got all these, like, weird magic shops and stuff," Jesse says, feeling kind of sleepy again. His anger has more or less dissipated, though, because how can you really blame somebody for ditching a watch he didn't expect to survive long enough to use? Better to leave it for somebody else who might need it— _or_ the pawn money. Jesse reaches across the center stuff-compartment thing and sets a hand on Walt's thigh. "There's a few history museums you might wanna see, plus this historic boat in the harbor."

Walt's nodding as he removes one hand from the steering wheel to take Jesse's, but his eyes never leave the road. "It's a reconstruction of the _Friendship_. I remember seeing it years ago."

"Hey, wouldn't wanna bore you or nothin' if you've seen it all," Jesse retorts, twining his fingers with Walt's, leaning over as Walt stops at a red light. He nuzzles into Walt's open collar without warning, latching onto Walt's neck; his aftershave isn't cheap anymore, not after that trip to Boston, but it's still bitter beneath the swipe of Jesse's tongue. "But I guess you're gonna have to deal."

Walt sighs, the sound strained and soft, disentangling his hand from Jesse's so he can reach around to cradle the back of Jesse's head while Jesse lazily licks Walt's skin. "I'm _trying_ to drive."

"Guess you're gonna have to deal with this, too," Jesse mumbles, shifting to nip at Walt's earlobe. If Walt's tired and frazzled and just wants to get back home to whatever boring-ass science podcast he'd been listening to until his conscience got him texting, well, Jesse's not going to let him. It's been another stressful night on the figuring-shit-out front, and Jesse's not _so_ drunk he wouldn't rather deal some way other than continuing to bicker. "Bet you can't concentrate if—"

" _Jesse_ ," Walt pleads, his hand flying from the back of Jesse's head down to where Jesse's slipped his hand between Walt's legs. "For fuck's sake, it's just another minute or so until we're—"

Jesse gives Walt a pinch, sucking his earlobe more persistently. "Then concentrate _harder_."

Walt's intake of breath as he takes a sharp right down the driveway, almost a wince, is satisfying.

Once the car's parked and he's dragged Walt inside, Jesse loses half his clothes in the middle of their tiny living room. Walt's impatient now, just as turned-on as he'd been while they were driving. Jesse's reeling, dizzy with what's left of the booze in his system. He must be metabolizing fast, or maybe it was just some kind of head-rush back at the bar because he hasn't eaten much; he thinks the reason he's swaying on his feet is that his body's responding swiftly to the bite-marks Walt's trailing methodically down Jesse's exposed chest. He tugs at Walt's hair, insistent.

"If this was your plan all along," Walt pants, letting Jesse haul him to his feet, "well played."

"I sure as shit didn't plan on arguing with you, asshole," Jesse mutters, shoving his tongue in Walt's mouth as soon as he leans in for another kiss. "But after that, uh, _yeah_. You got me."

Walt pulls away too soon, but Jesse gives up on the idea of protest when it turns out all Walt wants is to take his sweet time leaving a mark well above Jesse's collarbone. "Smart-ass," he counters.

"Yeah, Walt, that's real creative," Jesse sighs, tipping his head back, eyes sliding shut. " _Ah_."

"If I were feeling spiteful," Walt says, biting ineffectually at the hollow of Jesse's throat, "I'd make you stand here all night." He bites Jesse's earlobe for emphasis, so Jesse shoves into him. "But we're both too tired for that, and I'd rather..." Walt's fingernails scrape at the space between Jesse's shoulder blades; it's aimless until he traces the outline of Jesse's skull tattoo from memory.

"Good thing you're not," Jesse pants, clutching Walt's shoulders. "You really dig my ink, huh?"

Walt gives up on Jesse's earlobe and spins him around, steering him toward the bedroom, one hand still in contact with the skull. "It's just that it's, well, given the day—it's festive. Appropriate"

"Sure, it's appropriate all right," Jesse agrees, tugging Walt along behind him. "Like if you mean culturally appropriat _ive_ or whatever. I swear a couple of the guys eye-rolled so hard when they saw it they almost hurt themselves. Emilio used to give me shit. I was just...it was dumb, you know? I was like, what, seventeen or eighteen when I got it? No way was I gonna—"

"Marigolds," Walt says, pushing Jesse down on the bed, not even roughly, once they get there.

"Mmmhm," Jesse replies, because, for once, Walt's nerdy digression actually makes sense to him. "It's got some yellow petals above the eyes," he says, pointing back over his shoulder, but Walt's pressing kisses over the ink now. He sure as hell can't look at it while he does that. "Combo's mom did this dope shrine every year, like...it was fucking _covered_ in them. Made me sneeze."

Walt doesn't say anything in response to that, no longer interested in talking about holidays they've left far behind them as he unfastens Jesse's jeans, shoving them down, boxers and all. Jesse squirms out of them and peels off his socks while Walt rolls away from him to undress. Walt's pressed up along Jesse's back again in no time, stealthy bastard, warm skin and insistent lips at Jesse's nape.

"Maybe I should get your name." The phrase rumbles in Walt's chest, vibrating through Jesse as Walt's hands knead their way from Jesse's hipbones down to his thighs. "Where would you put it?"

Jesse moans, already hard as _fuck_ , mouthing at the pillow while Walt ruts lazily against the small of Jesse's back. "Seriously? Like—my real name or my fake name?" he gasps, wriggling into better alignment, reaching back to pull Walt tighter against his ass.

Walt groans, nuzzling into what little's left of Jesse's hair. He's already coming, shivering against Jesse's fever-hot skin. "Your name," he pants, rubbing Jesse's arm in apology. "Just that."

"How 'bout like on your shoulder or your chest or—" Jesse twists around in Walt's embrace, too delirious to care about the fact he's making the mess worse "—or over one of your scars." Jesse places the flat of his palm over the faint evidence of Walt's surgery for emphasis, and then, fingers fanned, smears his way down to the well-healed gunshot. "That'd be hot," he breathes against Walt's ear, pushing against Walt's belly.

"Roll over," Walt says, which is hilarious because he's doing it _for_ Jesse, folding Jesse under him, settling between Jesse's spread thighs. Jesse's still just drunk enough to be in awe of this, skin tingling, pulse on fire; maybe it's better than meth ever was, and maybe Walt knows it. "I'm going to make you come," Walt adds, almost casually between soft pecks against Jesse's cheek.

"Don't you think I, _uh_ ," Jesse mumbles, trembling, tongue clumsy, "scared you way too much for one night to deserve royal treatment?" He can't even concentrate, not with Walt sucking ruthlessly at that same spot above Jesse's collarbone. "Yo, _careful_. S'already purple!"

"That's the point, Jesse," mumbles Walt, mildly, too intent on his task, the massive _dork_ , to even look up at him. Now he's working on the hollow of Jesse's throat, licking into it like he can't get enough of the sweat-smoke-come cocktail that Jesse imagines he must taste like. "As far as I'm concerned, it's the only treatment you deserve from here on out."

"Have you really learned your place and shit? _Awesome_ ," Jesse breathes, only half sarcastic, squeezing his eyes shut, because now Walt's scooting down to worry at Jesse's nipples with his teeth. The friction, the weight of him settled between Jesse's legs like he fucking belongs there, almost ends the enterprise. "Walt," he whimpers, hands scrabbling at Walt's shoulders in warning. " _Watch_ it, d'you want me to like—"

"I want you to stop over-thinking this," Walt murmurs, "and enjoy yourself." It's unfair how fast he lifts his body from Jesse's and scoots down so he can get a good grip on Jesse's thighs from underneath while he tenderly licks and bites at Jesse's belly.

" _Ffff_ ," is literally all that Jesse manages to force past his teeth, because Walt sucks another mark right onto the jut of Jesse's right hip before nuzzling between Jesse's legs. His lips don't linger against the head of Jesse's cock; it's all too brief a dip of Walt's tongue into Jesse's slit before he latches onto the inner flesh of Jesse's left thigh. And that's all it takes.

" _Shhh_ ," Walt murmurs, cupping Jesse's shaft against his cheek with slow, soothing strokes while Jesse gasps raggedly through the best fucking orgasm he's had in recent memory. "There you go," Walt says, pressing a kiss into the crease of Jesse's thigh, never mind that he's probably got the stuff on his cheek, chin, and everywhere else. " _Shhh_ , Jesse. That's right."

"Like I passed a goddamn pop quiz or something?" Jesse gasps, throat gone raw, letting his fingers claw their way into Walt's chaotic hair. He's fascinated by the rugged silver-fox thing Walt's got going these days, no two ways about it. Walt takes that as his cue to slide carefully back up the length of Jesse's body and kiss him right into the pile of pillows. Jesse shivers under him, clinging, still mostly out of his mind with whatever chemical thing it is orgasms do to your brain.

"Smart-ass," Walt chides, but there's no malice behind it this time. He kisses Jesse's forehead and gets up before Jesse can register his whimper of protest, so Jesse just goes limp on the wrecked sheets and tries to catch his breath while Walt knocks around the bathroom. He's not even feeling fractionally normal again when Walt, patches of skin rosy where he's given himself a scrub-down, comes back with a wash-cloth drenched in hot water and gives Jesse a thorough sponging. 

Jesse closes his eyes when Walt removes the fluffy hand-towel from around his neck and dries Jesse off. It's not helping the vast wet spots in the sheets any, which Jesse points out by plucking at one of them with his fingernails. "Lie over there," Walt instructs, shifting him to the dry side of the bed. He leaves again and comes back with the heavy-weave cotton throw Jesse loves.

"Great, we're gonna have to wash that, too," Jesse mumbles, but he shifts around till Walt's got it spread out over the mattress and has flipped all the pillows over. Jesse feels drowsy and decadent being pulled back into Walt's arms like this, everything dry and sleepy-seeming. Walt's on his back, so Jesse levers himself up and kisses all over Walt's face, his neck, his collarbone. He's covered in marks but declines to give Walt any in return, keeping the brush of his mouth lighter than the autumn breeze through their window. 

Walt's breath catches in his throat when Jesse sucks at his nipples, but he doesn't get hard again, and Jesse isn't aiming for that anyway. He feels pensive by the time he's mouthing at Walt's bullet-scar, imagining his name there in ornate, scrolling ink. He nuzzles blindly up Walt's ribcage, shoving Walt's arm aside. _There_. Ghost of an incision, startlingly smooth beneath Jesse's lips. Bitter reminder. Jesse's throat grows thick with it, although the sound of his own choked cry startles him somehow. Walt cradles the base of Jesse's skull just like he'd done in the car.

"You'll leave me," Jesse whispers, wet-eyed, hating himself for looking up at Walt like this after what they've just done. "You won't want to, but you will." He thinks of Aunt Ginny, and that does it; he latches onto Walt, a sob-wracked disaster. "It'll take you from me, won't it, just like—"

"It won't if I can help it!" Walt blurts, somewhere between frustration and worry. He massages Jesse's shoulders until Jesse stops shaking quite so hard, kissing the top of Jesse's head over and over. "We're taking every precaution. I won't stand for the chemo again, but I _will_ fight to stay alive, because I—" And he shapes the next two words soundlessly, tilting his head to one side, nearly a flinch, as if he expects to be hit.

Jesse snaps his head up; Walt's now returning Jesse's stare like this is some shared hallucination.

"You love me?" Jesse echoes, sniffling, wiping his nose on the back of his hand. "No shit." He'd like to think he's kept that note of anxious disbelief out of his voice, but Walt's expression is so unguarded that he just knows he hasn't managed sarcasm. "I couldn't tell there for a while."

" _Yes_ shit," says Walt, with that wry twist of his mouth Jesse finds so maddening, attempting to lighten the mood so Jesse can save face. "Or, as the case may be," he continues, his expression somewhat gentler, yet still snark-filled in that maddening way of his. "Yes. _Shit_."

And the whole thing is so unbelievably ludicrous that they both burst out laughing together for the first time since they worked in Fring's lab at _least_. That's a sobering thought. Jesse buries his face in the curve of Walt's neck, hiccupping along that knife's edge between hilarity and tears.

"You too, asshole," he says once he can breathe semi-normally again. "Or, like I said before, maybe not."

"Should I take that as a compliment?" asks Walt, his irritation belied by the fact he's rubbing Jesse's back.

"We'll see," Jesse says, shrugging, letting his kisses against the side of Walt's neck do the actual talking.


	4. Milestones

Jesse's at the sink doing dishes when Walt comes up behind him and sets both hands on Jesse's hips like the stealthy motherfucker he is. There's a grave quality to the touch, like Walt's about to break bad news or something. He's nuzzling Jesse's hair and, before Jesse knows it, those hands on his hips become arms wrapped so tightly around his waist that he kind of feels squashed.

Jesse peels off the rubber gloves he's wearing, old habits and shit, and then curls his fingers around Walt's wrists, thumbing the tendons underneath. "Bad day in boring science-mag land?"

"Hemp oil protocol," says Walt, quietly, his lips moving against Jesse's scalp. "I can distill it."

"Like fuck you're gonna distill it," Jesse replies, squeezing Walt's forearms, pulse skyrocketing, _relieved_. He'd been expecting some huge announcement, but what he gets is an understated moment instead. "It'll seem totally suspicious if anybody's watching lab supply companies for big orders. Also, I won't let you mess up the basement. We just fixed it, and my garden of contraband down there's gotta thrive if we want this to work. We'll order pre-made oil. Less suspicious, less stress. This is New England, plenty of crunchy hippies up here who use homeopathic stuff."

"Are you so determined to rob me of what pleasure I might've taken in this?" Walt asks plaintively, and there's something really fucking infuriating about the way he's kissing Jesse's ear as if to show how penitent he is. "But," he sighs, almost contritely, "your point is nonetheless a valid one."

"What, you mean the nerdy science experiment pleasure?" Jesse retorts, tightening his grasp on Walt's wrists until he's cutting off Walt's circulation. "What about the pleasure of knowing you're probably not gonna die on me as long as you follow that internet lady's instructions to the letter?"

"A drop of oil under the tongue every three hours," says Walt, flatly. "Side effects: severe fatigue, so all I'll do is sleep. Unless I feel like juicing fresh cannabis into some awful smoothie every morning, which you've already planned for, but those sprouts downstairs don't look promising."

"One gram of oil a day," Jesse reminds him, letting the blood rush back into Walt's hands, flexing his fingers. "That's what it takes. And if I can't get it down your throat, there's always suppositories."

"You won't be in charge if it comes to _that_ ," Walt insists, shaking Jesse. "I'm capable."

"Yeah, just like you were so capable of handling your chemo that you paid Ed ten or twenty grand per session to do it for you," Jesse mutters, pushing them back away from the sink. If this is going to turn into some kind of argument, he'll be leaving the house in about five minutes' time because Walt won't back down; _or_ , Walt will apologize, Jesse will gloat, and they'll end up in bed.

"The alkalizing diet is going to be the most difficult part, as I'm sure you're aware," Walt says.

"So you've gotta cut red meat and dairy and processed foods and shit," Jesse retorts. "Big deal."

Walt's spinning Jesse around now, looking Jesse squarely in the eyes like he means business.

"And sugar, and bread, and most grains. Your budding kitchen hobby will be put to the test."

"I was a better cook than you in the end," Jesse grits out, hoping that'll drive the point home. "Meth or no meth, it's all the same to me. Your ass is gonna take whatever I dish food-wise, comprende?"

He's crushed in Walt's embrace before he knows it, face tucked into the curve of Walt's neck while Walt nods and nods and _nods_ against the top of Jesse's head. He's surrendering, or, if not that, then he at least understands exactly what he's taken on. No more half measures for sure.

Walt's crying like he does when he hates himself for doing so. Jesse sighs, but doesn't ask why.

 

 * * *

 

Jesse resents the juicer more than he'd resented the iPhones when Walt had brought them home from Boston back in October. This fucker sounds hella weird, and he can't kick it up to the top settings without making a mess. He's never been good with gadgets more complicated than the ones his mom had kept around the house when he was in grade-school and junior high, like what was wrong with Dustbusters anyway? He never wants to see a Roomba again, he swears to God. Few things closely associated with his old house carry any kind of reassurance.

He gets the smoothie in the glass this time without slopping _too_ much of it on the counter, and he's not that guilty about having to lick a decent amount off his hand. The weed he's growing in the basement makes for a fascinating addition, he has to admit. Any time Walt refuses to finish the last quarter or so of his glass, Jesse gulps it down once he's back in the kitchen. Waste not, want—well, no, not true. Where Walt conks the fuck out afterward, Jesse gets a case of the munchies. He carries the glass into the living room, where Walt's already fast asleep in front of the TV.

"Yo," Jesse whispers, climbing onto the cushion next to Walt, careful not to spill. " _Hey_. Got your thing here," he says, nudging Walt's shoulder. He turns off the TV, not really that keen on _Ancient Aliens_ reruns, and puts the glass in a yawning Walt's hand. "Drink up."

Walt gives Jesse a bleary-eyed look as Jesse settles in beside him. "What's in this one?"

"The usual suspects," Jesse says, counting them off on his fingers. "Beetroot, carrots, kale, celery, asparagus, ginger, turmeric..." He trails off as Walt makes a face at the latter; turmeric is, according to Walt, _the worst_. "Like a whole orange and an apple, too. Uh, chia seeds?"

"You could've left out the chia," Walt gripes, but he sips at it anyway. "And your secret ingredient?"

"We got Jillybean doing pretty well, so that's what I threw in," Jesse replies, scratching the back of his head. It's late January now, twenty-fucking-twelve, and none of the computers have taken over the world or anything like everyone expected; his hair's grown in to the point he can get it cut like he used to. "Listen, I _know_ you liked the Girl Scout Cookies, but that shit died on me."

"Am I likely to experience paranoia on this?" Walt asks, setting the glass aside on the coffee table.

"Nope, sativa dominant even though it's crossed strains," Jesse yawns, finding Walt's drowsiness infectious. "But you're gonna fall back to sleep in no time if you finish it like you're supposed to."

"You haven't been smoking, have you?" Walt asks, reaching for the glass again. "Not too much?"

"Hardly at all, jeez," Jesse sighs, worming his way under Walt's fleece blanket. "Get off my ass."

Walt's chugging the smoothie now, determined to prove he's a tough guy. "I'm performing due diligence," he says at length, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. "Just like you asked."

Jesse nods in sullen agreement, staring at his bare feet propped next to Walt's sock-covered ones against the edge of the coffee table. "Better than going back to the cigs, right? Two months down."

Walt tips Jesse into him until Jesse's head rests against his shoulder. "I'd say weed's preferable."

"You still can't roll for shit," Jesse says. "Ain't gonna let you fuck up at bedtime again, no way."

"And I'm not going to let you smoke half of my evening dose again," Walt insists. " _Way_."

"Don't use slang you never got the hang of in the first place," Jesse yawns. Damn, had he ingested _that_ much of Walt's smoothie while he was fighting with the juicer? "Lame, dude. _Super_ lame."

"As long as you agree to stop using slang as juvenile as what just came out of your mouth."

"Whatever," Jesse snorts. "Okay, _uh_ —wait. Fair. I get why you don't like that one."

Walt's working on the rest of his smoothie, looking green around the gills. "This is disgusting."

"You say that every time," Jesse tells him, eyeing the remote, "no matter how I change it up."

"Maybe just go for mango and fruit juice and kale next time," Walt suggests. "And this...this new strain, jelly whatever-you-said, it's..." He sounds kind of hazy already. "I really kind of...like it."

"You huge stoner," Jesse mutters, snatching the glass out of Walt's hand, raising it to his lips.

  

* * *

 

Jesse stands in front of the watercolor-and-pastel drawing until he's sick with the beauty of it, arms folded across his stomach. It's freakishly hot for April in Portland, or at least that's what the Mainers are saying. He's in a plain black t-shirt; Walt had successfully convinced him to leave his hoodie behind in the hotel room. Now, weapons-grade museum air conditioning is kicking his ass.

"[That's a striking composition](http://collections.portlandmuseum.org/Obj3586?sid=72&x=1286&port=1)," Walt says softly, wandering over from where he'd been studying one of the museum's other recent acquisitions on display. "Inspiration for your next piece of ink?"

Jesse rolls his eyes, but Walt has a point: the disembodied arm in this piece of artwork is sporting a _really_ sick tat. "Maybe if I was, like, I dunno, actually a fan of _Moby-Dick_ , I'd think about it."

"You would've read it, wouldn't you?" Walt asks, his eyes following the flecks of gold against the robin's-egg-blue background. "Mrs. Taylor, eleventh-grade English? Same year as I had you in—"

"I skipped the slow parts," Jesse replies, squinting at the whale-jaw's delicately articulated teeth.

"As I recall," says Walt, side-eyeing him tiredly, "that's most of the novel. I didn't enjoy it, either."

"I never said it _totally_ sucked," Jesse admitted, turning his head to study Walt's face for signs of too much fatigue. His color's fine, if marked by the slight sunburn they've both acquired so far this weekend, and his eyes have still got that hazy cast from his under-the-tongue dose an hour or so before. "There was some pretty gay shit in there. It kinda, like...fascinated me."

Walt's expression turns from fondness to the kind of exasperation he reserves for when he wants to pretend Jesse has disappointed him. "Scandalous subtext was the only thing that kept you going?"

Jesse makes a face at him, bumping Walt's elbow with his own. "Yeah, look who's talking. Homo."

Walt opens his mouth as if to scold Jesse, but he appears to think better of it. Regardless of how they identify (or, as the case may be, _don't_ ), maybe he realizes that this particular word-choice isn't one on which either of them has _any_ room to call the other these days.

"I know you've been restless, what with how cooped-up we are," he says slowly, like he's feeling his way into one of those emotion-loaded statements he finds especially difficult. "I appreciate how well you've taken the necessity of lying low for as long as possible. Is this..." He makes a gesture at _Self-Portrait As Ishmael's Arm_ in front of them, and then gestures vaguely at the rest of the gallery they're currently standing in. "Enough of a get-away for the time being? They say the trip via Downeaster is worth experiencing in its own right."

"There's more shit to do here than Salem," Jesse allows, nodding. "But the train ride wore you out."

"My health should be the least of your worries," Walt says. "I'm fine. We're on vacation. Enjoy it."

"I always wanted to see the _other_ Portland," Jesse admits. "You know, way out in Oregon."

Walt shakes his head, tight-lipped. "Too big a risk. I have no idea if flying will ever be possible."

"Then what the fuck are our legit IDs for, Martin," Jesse shoots back, aggravated, " _huh_?"

Walt swallows what might just be a tickle in his throat, or maybe it's a fit of coughing he doesn't want Jesse to hear. "Please," he says, his fingers curling at Jesse's elbow. "Give it more time."

"Did I ever tell you my aunt was gonna take me traveling after graduation?" Jesse asks, trying to subdue the bitterness in his tone, but it isn't working. "Yeah, that was the deal. She was supposed to be in remission by the time that happened. Like you can probably guess that it _didn't_." He swallows, not wanting to lay the guilt-trip on _too_ hard, but he can't help it. "My parents traveled sometimes, but they never took me anywhere because my grades always sucked. Now, it's like my brother gets to do everything."

"I'm sorry," Walt says, eyes flicking to one side as an elderly woman comes up to study the piece they've been hogging. " _Carl_. It's just..." He pauses. "Where was your aunt going to take you? Did she have an itinerary in mind?"

"Paris," Jesse tells him, his throat tight, "and then everywhere else. She said Paris was the bomb."

Just like that, Walt's got his arm around Jesse, tugging him in, and the elderly woman scoots off.

"She was definitely right," Walt replies, resting his cheek against Jesse's hair. "It's that and more."

"Sure, asshole," Jesse mutters, closing his eyes on the image, hoarding Walt's warmth. "Rub it in."

"You're too thin," Walt remarks under his breath, picking at Jesse's shirt. "Thin as when we first—"

"Damn rabbit food for, what, five months now," Jesse sighs, tugging Walt closer. "But I feel fine."

 

* * *

 

Jesse presses his cheek up against the cold glass of Yuengling as soon as Ray hands it to him. The condensation feels great against his skin, which is burnt to a crisp in spite of the fact that Walt had been pushing extra sunscreen on him all day. Fourth of fucking July on the beach, _amen_.

"Thanks, man," he says, slipping the bartender five bucks even though Walt's already tipped him. "Listen, is this, like, the hottest year on record up here _ever_? It's been ninety since April."

Ray shrugs contemplatively, sliding a glass of Diet Coke up to Walt's elbow; something boring like the stock-market report on CNN has Walt's eyes glued to the television. "I wouldn't be surprised."

"This summer's _killing_ me, dude, I mean...back at home, it always used to be..." Jesse catches himself just as Walt's gaze jerks warningly in Jesse's direction. "Nothin' but dry heat," he finishes. "None of this sweat-to-death humidity crap. I'm not used to it."

Ray gets down to business wiping the spill he's left behind. "You from out West or something?"

"Not originally," Walt cuts in, businesslike, sipping his Coke, "but we spent some time in Utah."

"Yeah," Jesse agrees, feeling like Walt's just narrowly saved their asses just like he has a dozen other times under far worse circumstances, except Jesse knows Ray doesn't suspect them of being fugitives because he's been serving them alcohol for almost a year now. "It really blows out there."

"But not the dry heat, right?" Ray says, pointing affable finger-guns. "Mormons, though. Damn."

"As you can imagine," Walt interrupts, hustling the conversation along, "our kind aren't welcome."

"Don't know why people gotta be pricks about it," Ray sighs. "My sister's got a wife. Eight years!"

"Congrats to 'em," Jesse says, raising his glass. "Guess they tied the knot in '04 when it got legal?"

"Yeah, like right away," Ray agrees absently, rubbing his neck. "My abuelita 'bout had a fit at first."

"Grandparents, right?" Jesse sighs, nursing his beer. "Sometimes the older generations ain't with it."

"My generation's scarcely with it," Walt says to no one in particular, back to watching television.

"Hey, are you guys gonna ever, you know..." Ray rolls his hands meaningfully. "Put a ring on it?"

"Martin here's a huge asshole," Jesse says, giving Ray his most charming smile, "so, nah, I doubt—"

Ray thumps Walt's shoulder, making him choke into his glass. "Why you gotta _be_ like that?"

"The feeling is mutual," Walt says, half-glaring at Ray. "Carl here's a real jackass, so we're even."

"There ain't no love lost between you losers," Ray says, whistling. "Perfect for each other, huh?"

Jesse waits until Ray's gone to help the new customers who've planted themselves at the far end of the bar; the place is already packed with refugees from the heat. He sets a hand on Walt's shoulder, squeezing with care. "You sure you're doing okay? Still feeling dizzy?"

" _No_ , Jesse," Walt snaps, and then he's swiveling around to stare at Jesse in ashen-faced apology for the slip. "Je—jes— _just_ , no, I'm...okay, I _might_ have heat-stroke." He rubs the side of his face, glancing at their surroundings. Nobody's paying attention.

"Nice save, dickbag," Jesse hisses, rocking till he's bumped his stool against Walt's so he can rest his chin on Walt's shoulder from behind, wrapping both arms around him. "Time to go home?" he asks, watching the names of stocks tick by. They have so much money now he can't grasp it.

"My next dose isn't till six," Walt says. "You keep saying we need to get out more, so here we are."

"Yeah, but I'm turning into a lobster, and _you're_ turning into Oscar the Grouch," Jesse says.

Walt idly strokes the backs of Jesse's hands, thumbing at Jesse's ring fingers. "Drawing attention to ourselves in a legal context like that, even our false selves, would be far too dangerous," he says quietly.

Jesse presses his lips into Walt's damp linen shirt to keep his grin from showing. "Whatever."

 

* * *

 

Jesse feels like a fraud in his tailored button-down dress shirt, fancy jeans, and Sperrys. His fingers tap restless staccato on the arm of the expensive office chair he's sitting in, or at least they do until Walt's hand creeps over from a matching arm-rest and stills it. Dr. Korai is late.

"She'll be here," Walt reassures Jesse softly. "Remember how long she kept us waiting last time?"

"The results of your fucking _scans_ weren't on the line last time," Jesse hisses, tapping his heel against the close-cropped, yet luxurious industrial carpet. "My nerves can't handle this shit."

"I know you've been through this too many times, Jesse," Walt whispers, "and I'm sorry for it."

Several weeks before, Jesse had texted Ed with, _You know of any clinic out here that would do scans off the record? Too scared to ask around. —C._ Ed had responded forty-eight hours later with a single Providence area-code phone number, no other indication of where it would lead, and had followed it up with, _Never contact me again_. Jesse had all but cried for half an hour.

With cash, getting Walt scheduled for scans within a week had been simple. The waiting had not.

(It also wasn't helping that he'd had another one of those fucked-up dreams just the night before.)

"You never used to be sorry for anything," Jesse chokes, reaching for one of the tissues on Dr. Korai's desk just as the diminutive, terrifyingly capable woman bustles in with Walt's charts.

"How good it is to see you again—Mr. Dedham, Mr. Page," she says, flashing them a dazzling smile, gold earrings glinting as she takes a seat, facing them, at her desk. "I apologize for the delay. I wanted to double-check the results, you understand. What I'm about to tell you is—"

"I would rather you didn't embellish this," Walt says, cutting her off, and Jesse kind of wants to punch him. "Cut right to the chase, please. Neither one of us has the desire to... _to_..."

"To draw this out, of course you don't," says Dr. Korai, her smile waxing more genuine than Jesse had expected it would after she'd been so rudely interrupted. "You're quite nervous, I see that." Her dark, dark eyes flick to Jesse's face, and then down to the tissue. "It's good news, Carl. Only good." She lays Walt's folder flat in front of her and opens the file, pointing. "No shadow. In fact, I would call it a speck. Whatever it is you've been doing for Martin, I would tell you to keep doing it until I can see him again three months from now. I do not know these therapies as well as I might, but there are clinics in Mexico supposedly doing as thorough a job as you're doing at home."

"Ain't _never_ going back to fuckin' Mexico," Jesse breathes out, squeezing Walt's hand, his eyes filling with fresh tears before he can get a grip on himself. "Jeez. I mean— _thank you_."

"You mean there's nothing?" Walt blurts, as if he's only just processed what she's said, the fucking _moron_. "Or—next to nothing? You're absolutely _sure_ you didn't see..." From the look of him, he's in disbelief that's far, far number than Jesse's.

"All those success stories can't be false," Dr. Korai says. "Science allows for some miracles."

"And the blood tests?" Jesse prompts, snagging another tissue, gripping Walt's hand tighter.

Dr. Korai flips to the back of the folder, scanning a page of tiny print. "No cause for concern."

Jesse turns his head to gawp at Walt through his tears, disbelieving. Walt returns his gaze for a few seconds, glaze-eyed, before turning his attention back to Dr. Korai. For once, he seems at a loss. Jesse wonders how it was when he first got his diagnosis.

"I'll leave the charts here, if you'd like to have a look at them. I have another appointment in five minutes, so I've got to go." Dr. Korai rises, sliding the folder in Walt's direction. "I'll take care of scheduling the next set of tests; you'll hear from me," she says. "Congratulations. You're winning."

They sit in Dr. Korai's office in complete silence for about sixty seconds after she glides right out.

When Jesse turns his head to look at Walt again, Walt's eyes are already fixed on him, luminous.

"I shouldn't be surprised about this," Walt says, his voice rough. "We've already worked miracles."

"Yeah, but not this kind," Jesse hiccups, leaning forward, reaching for him. " _Not this kind_."

He knows how deals with the Devil work, knows kisses borrowed against time are the exact price.

 

* * *

 

Jesse hadn't planned on spending his twenty-ninth birthday napping in an airport lounge, but their flight's delayed. Walt had seemed happy enough to let Jesse lean against his shoulder even though he claimed it made typing difficult. Jesse yawns, startling awake at a bright flare on Walt's screen. He'd recognize those fireball graphics anywhere; he has a brief flashback of teaching Jake how to navigate this dungeon.

"Yo, is that my NES emulator?" he asks, rubbing his cheek while he watches, fascinated, as Walt makes impressively short work of kicking Bowser's ass. "Your son must've played that, right?"

"It was a little before his time, but not so far before that he didn't end up with a hand-me-down system from one of my co-workers' kids," Walt says, looking satisfied with the carnage. "I used to play this game with him. I have to admit, your laptop keyboard is no substitute for controllers."

"Yeah, no shit," Jesse sighs, curling back into a ball in his shitty chair, burrowing under Walt's arm. "See how well you play if you gotta reach around me. Consider it like, I dunno, a golf handicap."

"What the hell do you know about golf?" Walt snorts, tapping keys, already on the next level.

"More than you do, bitch," mumbles Jesse, already drifting off again. "Dad used to take me."

Walt tucks Jesse's head under his chin, making an exasperated noise that means he's given up.

Lucky for them, Air France does direct flights from Logan International to Charles de Gaulle. Jesse had been pushing for a layover somewhere weird like Keflavík (Badger had once gone on about shit like Icelandic yogurt and jam made from berries that sounded imaginary this one time he'd been there with his cousin, the hot one, _not_ the douche with the scrap-yard). But Walt wants the least amount of fuss, which means no stops, pricey seats in first class, the whole nine yards. In some matters, there's still no arguing with him over how things will be.

Jesse is currently very, _very_ much in favor of the first class arrangements, because he's on like his third vodka and cranberry juice. The vodka on airplanes blows, it turns out, so he's taken to dumping it in the canned Ocean Spray that, for some reason, seems preferable to Tropicana from concentrate. He's turned into a juice snob in the past couple of years, and who could blame him?

"Hey, another, please!" he calls as the flight-attendant dude swishes past. "This one's almost gone."

" _Shhh_ ," Walt hisses, shaking Jesse's arm. "Keep it down. We're trying to stay off the radar."

"But the booze is _free_ , yo!" Jesse hisses back, waving at Walt's wine. "You need more, too."

"Thanks to the state you're in," Walt says, put-upon, "this is the only indulgence I'll allow myself."

Jesse goes _pfff_ in Walt's irritating face and turns back to the window, transfixed. " _Whoa_."

"You'd really never flown before you went..." Walt stops short. "Never commercially, anyway?"

"Nope," Jesse breathes, splaying his fingers against the condensation-cool glass. "Look at that."

Walt just nods, deciding Jesse having gone docile and quiet is a good excuse to kiss his earlobe.

"Clouds are garden-variety to me, even from this perspective, but I'm glad you're enjoying them."

"Man, Captain Buzzkill much?" Jesse slurs, turning his head back to Walt. Like, maybe it's the vodka, but he's floored by what he sees. Walt looks even more entranced than Jesse feels. His brain's gone too mushy to say anything more smart-ass than that.

"Watching _you_ , on the other hand," Walt allows, lips quirking upward, "I could get used to."

"If that's some dumb pick-up line, it ain't gonna work," Jesse scoffs. "No Mile-High Club."

"I wouldn't dream of suggesting anything so foolish," Walt says, reclining in his seat, miffed.

"Yeah, 'kay," Jesse replies, happily reaching over to accept the new can of cranberry juice and mini-bottle of vodka the flight attendant has brought for him. "You just keep telling yourself that." Walt takes both items off Jesse's hands and mixes the drink for him.

Jesse sleeps through most of the remaining four hours, although he needs to piss like no tomorrow when he's jarred awake by landing. Walt makes fun of him until they find the men's room just before customs, but he guiltily follows Jesse inside. Training hypocrisy out of Walt is impossible.

Customs is kind of terrifying. Jesse feels vaguely hung-over, if that's even possible, so he lets Walt do most of the talking until the agent, a woman not much older than Jesse, addresses him directly. He restricts his answers to yes, no, and a bunch of babble about how he really wants to see a bunch of art museums. When Walt says the trip is both Jesse's birthday present and their honeymoon, she goes soft-eyed, stamps their passports, and waves them through. Jesse feels like he needs to re-learn breathing; there have only been a few other times he's been so scared he's forgotten how. Jesse's brain has shit timing. Walt pauses once they're in the next long hallway, pulling Jesse close. He's shaking.

"How do you keep getting _away_ with that? Like, just—tell people whatever the hell you want, all charming and shit, and they buy it," Jesse mutters, rubbing the side of his neck while they stand alongside the baggage carousel. "Still wish I was half as talented a liar as you are."

"The absence of an actual wedding is irrelevant," Walt remarks. "Says who I was lying?"

Kissing in a taxi is pretty universally frowned-upon; given Jesse's totally been kicked out of a couple cabs while high as a kite for that exact reason, he ought to know. He feels jittery and exhausted all at once, and the city's awash in splendor, early evening, fabled lights brilliant.

Walt's booked them into this place called the Raphael, and it doesn't disappoint. Their suite's burgundy damask and lacquered wood everywhere; when Jesse notices they've got a corner balcony looking out over rooftops and iconic landmarks, the first thing he wants to do is smoke out there _just because_. Walt makes him put down his suitcase, strip out of his clothes, and crawl into bed.

They've got a pretty dope mattress at home, but this one puts it completely to shame. Even the upscale place they'd stayed while the bedroom ceiling was being renovated now seems outright provincial, like a quaint bed and breakfast that's trying way too hard or something.

Jesse drowsily listens to Walt fussing with their suitcases for a few minutes before joining him.

He doesn't know what time it is when he wakes, but he's lying on his side facing the sliding glass door that leads out onto the balcony. It's fully dark outside now, so maybe it's past midnight. The sky's clear, speckled with stars that seem tragically faint in comparison to the city skyline.

There's the Eiffel Tower picked out against its postcard backdrop, an ethereal blaze of gold.

Marveling, Jesse stares at it. He winds his fingers in the pillowcase, breathes against the gentle resistance of Walt's arm around his middle.

 _You are here_ , he thinks, checking the slow rhythm of his own pulse before closing the circle of his fingers around Walt's wrist. _You lived._


	5. Mistakes

Jesse wiggles his toes inside his Sperrys, which are getting way more worn-in than he'd ever thought they would. His socks are new enough to still feel scratchy in spite of having been washed once by the hotel concierge. They say _YOU'RE NOT THE BOSS OF ME_ on them in understated typeface across the bridge of the foot, and the remainder of the design, some kid dabbling her fingers in a stream, is hidden far enough up his khaki-legs that nobody can see it. He'd like to claim he's lost a bet, but his socks are, in actuality, the latest manifestation in this buy-each-other-dumb-spiteful-shit war they've got going. He'd retaliated with socks for Walt that say _I'M KIND OF A BIG DEAL_.

“Fucking cheater,” Jesse hisses, kicking Walt's ankle. “Deal was you were s'posed to wear yours, too.”

“Oh, I'm sorry,” retorts Walt, mildly, catching their flustered Dutch server's eye. “I thought you'd find it _reassuring_ if I didn't emblazon my calves with what you insist I so ardently believe is true.”

“Yeah, but like that leaves _me_ up shit creek without a paddle,” Jesse says, realizing abruptly that they are _not_ yet un-stoned enough to be out in public. They'd spent the past twenty-four hours smoking so much choice shit, which Jesse had snagged from some girl lingering right around the corner from the Rijksmuseum, that it was unreal. He couldn't believe the Breitner House people really _were_ looking the other way on account of Walt's over-the-top tipping habits. “How am I s'posed to know whether you mean it's like _ha ha_ , you're not really the boss of me, or if it's, like, shit, _um_. Like, me wearing 'em is me making the statement, 'cause if it's that? Then right _on_. But if you're bein' a smart-ass—”

“Jesse, be _quiet_ ,” says Walt, tone gentle and unfussed like it tends to be when he's anywhere on the spectrum of baked, and turns to give their server a strained smile. “We'd like to see your wine list.”

“Shoulda never let you learn how to roll better than me,” Jesse mutters around a bite of crusty bread.

“Are you implying we would have smoked less if you hadn't?” Walt asks wryly, his eyes tracking the attractive young man's progress across the dining room and back, right up till the moment the menus are placed in his hand. “No harm done. It can only reinforce my treatment.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Jesse snickers, snatching one of the mini-portfolios out of Walt's grasp. “Stoner asshole. Don't tell me your fucked-up nerd threesome wasn't smokin' it up like every weekend during grad school.” His eyes skip the wine selections and head straight for the Champagne. 

“Well, not _every_ weekend,” replies Walt, faking disdain, “but we did try peyote a handful of times.”

Jesse sobers up for a second, pretty impressed, because he's heard that's some scary shit. “ _Yo_.”

Walt shrugs, smiling at Jesse as if the admission means nothing to him. “And yet you were scornful when I refused to try...” He trails off, thumbing the tablecloth. “Try my luck with something else.” 

Jesse shrugs right back at him, trying to concoct a fitting retort, but his eyes fall on something that rings off way too many bells in his head, bells of let-the-good-times-roll variety. “That French stuff,” he says, jabbing his index finger at the name he _still_ couldn't pronounce even after he'd kept bottle after bottle after _bottle_ coming for him and the guys way back when—

 _Fuck_. Of all the shit they've pulled on each other that one of them still doesn't _know_. 

Walt peers at his menu, blinking owlishly. “You've had Pol Roger Cuvée Winston Churchill? 2004?”

Jesse's feet go jittery under the table, the toe of his right shoe bumping Walt's. “Uh, like yeah? So?”

“So,” Walt repeats, wearing the most skeptical bitch-face _ever_. “Without me. When was it?”

“This one time!” says Jesse, defensively, snapping the menu shut. “I had the spare cash, wanted to show Combo and Pete and Badge and some girls a dope time, you know? We musta drunk like ten—”

Walt's eyes go cool, calculating, and strange. That's when Jesse realizes he's the only one still stoned.

“At what point in time, exactly, when Combo was still alive,” Walt says, enunciating each damn word, “did you have enough _spare cash_ to purchase _ten bottles_ of this particular vintage?”

Jesse swallows, reaching for what's left of his bread. If he's going to vomit after he makes this admission, he might as well make sure there's something in his stomach to hork up so that Walt's thoroughly embarrassed. “First things first,” he says, taking a slow bite. “We're in _public_.”

“Yes, I do realize that,” says Walt, calmly, an unreadable smirk tugging at his already upturned lips.

“You gave me _seven fucking grand_ ,” Jesse says, leaning forward, mouth full. “Comprende?”

Walt's amusement flat-lines like the cardiac monitor in Jesse's worst nightmares. His sudden, stone-faced silence isn't Heisenberg levels of bad, but it's still cringe-worthy. Jesse wants to crawl under the table and hide from whatever invective's coming; instead, he jams some more bread in his mouth while their server comes back over and Walt, back to cordial normalcy in a flash, orders the Pol Roger.

And before Jesse can even spray crumbs everywhere in his own defense, Walt starts to _laugh_. In fact, Walt's cracking up so hard it's kind of surreal. Usually, Walt is the one all concerned with decorum and volume in public, but this time it's Jesse who wants to tell _him_ to keep it down.

“Hey, stop,” Jesse says, letting his fingers creep all skittery across the table. “People are staring.”

Walt actually pulls his napkin from his lap and uses it to dab at his eyes. “That's just _fantastic_.”

Jesse gapes at Walt, watching out of the corner of his eye as the server—yeah, okay, dude _is_ handsome—tows over an ice-bucket stand thingie and gets their Champagne flutes ready to go.

“So like I just told you I blew over half your savings on booze and strippers, and you're okay with it?”

“What does it matter now?” Walt asks, giving absolutely _zero_ fucks about whether the server's listening or not as he pours them two glasses of Pol Roger. “You came back with an RV, didn't you?”

“I...guess?” Jesse ventures, latching onto Walt's hand. He needs, like, _hardcore_ reassurance.

Walt lets his thumb brush against Jesse's before stroking Jesse's wrist. “Are we going to drink this?”

Jesse feels kind of prickly and patronized as Walt lets go of Jesse's hand in order to place one of the flutes in Jesse's grasp, but everything's a muted, happy haze once they've clinked glasses and half of the tingly stuff is down Jesse's throat. Yeah, this shit's the bomb.

And if the bottle's contents going sixty-forty in Jesse's direction by the end of the night isn't hilarious enough, Jesse can't help but notice that Walt turns even more flirty the minute the server starts paying Jesse _extra_ attention. Jesse's been told he's adorable when he's drunk.

“Are you sure I can't bring another bottle?” says the server, warm greyish eyes fixed right on Jesse's.

“Yup,” Jesse replies, tilting his chin up a little in loopy apology as Walt, completely ignoring the server, gets busy kissing the inside of Jesse's wrist. He manages to fumble his card-holder-wallet-he-doesn't-know-what-fucking-thing (that Walt paid like $500 for and gave him right before they left Paris) from his jacket pocket and pry out a few folded bills. “I, uh, think we're finished for the night. Thanks.”

Walt stops what he's doing almost as soon as the server's gone to get the check. “Shameless, Jesse.”

“How about shut your _mouth_?” Jesse warns, glancing around the dining room. Admittedly, it's cleared out a lot since they got there, and the other occupied tables are on the far side. “Jesus!”

“Shameless,” Walt repeats, pushing Jesse's cash back at him just as the server returns. “Carl.”

“Martin's such an asshole,” Jesse informs the server as Walt hands him more than enough cash from _his_ pocket. “Please excuse him. I think he was raised in the desert by coyotes or something.”

Using their fake names to address each other in public, with particular ostentation, _usually_ out of frustration or occasional resentment, has become one of Jesse's favorite pastimes. He smirks.

“That's more than enough,” Walt tells the server, who's now uneasily hovering. “The change is yours.”

“Lucky thing you're a stock-market genius, too,” Jesse says, tugging his napkin out of his lap, tossing it on top of his mostly-cleared plate. “With the right investment advice, so I'm glad you went and got it. At the rate you're spending, we'd have run out of money in less than a decade.”

“No small thanks to your help at the start,” Walt reminds him, getting to his feet, making sure his chair's pushed in. “But I know, I _know_ ,” he says reassuringly before Jesse can lash out, “it was an investment.”

“Sometimes I dunno why I took another chance on _your_ sorry ass, but I—” _Well, but nothing,_ he thinks, pleased that Walt's set a hand between his shoulder blades as he gets up and lets Walt steer him toward the door. _We both helped make the bed, and lying in it has worked out._

They don't take one of those bicycle rickshaw things home. Instead, they cut through Oosterpark on foot, strolling along the water. Jesse feels dizzy and heavy-headed, like he'd just as soon drop right into bed and curl up warm against Walt's back. Walt's arm around his waist is the main reason he's managing to walk in a straight line, so he doesn't complain. The dude's even more into PDA here than he'd been during the few weeks they spent in France, and Jesse's _way_ into that. Having the whole world know just how whipped he's got this guy? He'll take it.

On arriving back at Breitner House, skin tingling from all that sensory input, the first thing Jesse thinks as Walt unlocks their suite door is that he can't catch a single whiff of weed. Housekeeping has been through with air freshener or some shit that smells like citrus-spiked linen. There's a chemical edge to it that rubs Jesse the wrong way, but Walt is ushering him inside now with one insistent hand at the small of Jesse's back; _that_ rubs him just right. Walt holds him steady by the hips while he kicks out of his shoes, ready with a crushing, possessive-as-fuck kiss.

Jesse holds them steady while Walt toes out of his new fancy-ass dress shoes, refusing to break contact. He swore he'd never see the day Walt would give up those awful Clarks loafers, so— _hell_ yeah, lots to celebrate.

“Clothes, Jesse,” Walt breathes harshly against Jesse's cheek. “Off,” he adds sternly. “ _Please_.”

Jesse's already halfway done with his shirt buttons; as close as they're standing, he pokes Walt in the chest while his hands continue downward. “Mine or yours, asshole?” he asks, baring his chest enough to give Walt a teasing peek at his tattoo. He genuinely wonders if Walt will ever get one.

“Yours first, then mine,” Walt says, ignoring the by-now affectionate insult, catching Jesse's earlobe between his teeth while Jesse works on Walt's shirt. “Efficient when you want to be, isn't that right?”

“As long as there's sufficient incentive, yo,” Jesse replies in an attempt at casual indifference, but it's no use. He's got Walt's buttons undone, warm skin of Walt's chest beneath his palms, and risks executing this shit out of order. “Maybe you should've started bribing me with sex while we were working for Chickenman. Woulda maybe got us out of all that shit sooner, don't you think?”

Walt hums, noncommittal, but there's an undertone of guilty enjoyment that he'll never be able to hide, not anymore. Jesse's got Walt's trousers undone and his thumbs hooked under the waistband of Walt's more-tasteful-than-previously undies. All it takes is the scrape of Jesse's thumbnails along Walt's hipbones to get a groan out of him. “Maybe. If you'd been able to focus on maintaining quota.”

“Don't you go tellin' me I was distracted, okay?” Jesse hisses, shoving Walt's underwear and trousers down to about mid-thigh in one vindictive shove. “You were too busy perfecting the art of being first-class douchebag to notice you left me no fuckin' _choice_. Anything to forget about your ass being too grumpy to have a drink with me more than half the time, anything to—”

“What's done is done,” says Walt—breathy, regretful—and the maneuver finally produces exactly the effect Jesse had hoped it would. Walt rids himself of his shirt, bottom layers, and socks so quickly that Jesse has no choice but to stagger back and sit on the edge of the flawlessly-made bed. Walt sets his glasses aside on the nightstand, going down on his knees in front of Jesse. “Change of plans,” he adds, leaning in to latch onto Jesse's neck while his fingers navigate Jesse's fly with practiced ease.

“Right on,” Jesse sighs, letting his eyes fall shut, head tipping back in tandem. He'd spent so much of the back-end of dinner wondering if Walt's pissy reaction to the RV thing would come back to bite him in the ass that he hadn't really considered what the alternative might be. Letting Walt dominate the shit out of him without giving Walt any directions might be pretty okay. He's still feeling relatively loose-limbed. “Mmm, _fuck_.”

“Not tonight,” says Walt, tone abruptly coy enough to suggest a smirk, tugging Jesse's boxers and khaki-whatevers down to his ankles. He doesn't waste time getting Jesse in his hand, working Jesse's hard-on like he hopes each successive stroke will be the one to break him. “Disappointed?”

“Gah, _no_ ,” Jesse whimpers, letting go of whatever pride-shreds he might've been white-knuckling along with the weird bedspread. Paris notwithstanding, _duvet_ is a word he can't get used to, although for some fucked-up reason it's hot instead of ludicrous when Walt says it. He sets one hand on Walt's shoulder and molds the other suggestively to Walt's nape. “Blow me?”

“Do you think that's what you deserve?” Walt asks, tone restrained, and, _damn_ , there's a shot over the bow that makes Jesse's stomach flip. He gets Jesse in his mouth right away, though, sucking so lightly—teasing the slit with just a _hint_ of tongue—that Jesse thinks he might pass out.

“Dunno, but you sure must,” Jesse retorts, feeling the first twinge of his orgasm starting to build, thrusting up slightly because Walt's palms against his hipbones are so encouraging. “Shit, _shit_ yeah, keep that up, _fuck_ , like I might—”

Walt pulls off right at that moment, blinking up at Jesse with seemingly innocent intent. “You might what?” he asks. “I didn't catch that.”

Jesse lets go of Walt in order to thump the mattress. “Ruin the moment, why don't you,” he seethes, getting his right hand back within range of delivering a bitch-slap, which Walt evades. “Is this your idea of, like, some kind of retroactive punishment? Totally mature of you, Walt.”

“Don't know,” sighs Walt, brushing Jesse's cheek with his thumb. “Seems to me _you're_ the only one worked up enough to kill the mood, so—”

“So get back on my _dick_ , bitch!” Jesse shouts in abject frustration, not even meaning for it to come out as loud and harsh as it does. “The sooner you do, the sooner I'll shut the fuck up!”

“I doubt that,” Walt chides, too mildly for Jesse's liking. It's really hot when they argue in bed; like, _shit_ , it's not the kind of hate-sex they'd have had if they'd started back when things first headed south, but Jesse gets off on it with _zero_ effort. “We're not the only guests right now.”

“You think I care if anybody hears me?” Jesse says in an exaggerated whisper, winding his limbs around Walt and rubbing against his chest, letting him feel what this could do for them both. “Guess again,” he adds, breathing the words right into Walt's ear. “I don't give a _single_ —”

Jesse only manages to turn up the volume on those last two syllables, because Walt's just pinched Jesse's ass hard enough to make his eyes water. “You might want to reconsider your stance, Jesse,” Walt tells him, soothing the spot with a lighter touch almost as swiftly as he's inflicted the sting. “This'll go on a lot longer than you want it to otherwise.”

“You're the worst,” Jesse mutters, trying to convince himself he's not pouting, resting his head against Walt's shoulder. “ _Literally_ , dude. It's like nothing gets through your thick skull, not even now.”

"What's different?" asks Walt, nonchalantly. A shiver rips down Jesse's spine, renewing his interest, propelling him forward. Walt catches Jesse's squirming against him like he wants to absorb every movement before returning the favor, but he remains motionless. “In comparison to when?”

“You're being obtuse,” Jesse mutters, but he's making some progress here. Either his cheek or Walt's shoulder is getting damp with the exertion; he can feel his climax building again. “In comparison to when you actually _were_ the worst.”

“ _Were_? As in past tense?” Walt asks, slightly strained, still refusing to budge. “But I was under the impression you literally _just_ implied I'm—”

“C'mon,” Jesse pants, sagging with momentary exhaustion, losing some of the ground he'd gained back. “Unless you drank too much—which, for once, I doubt—you wanna get yours as bad as I do, so why don't we stop pretending this, uh, _anecdote_ I let slip is worth fighting about?”

“Fair point,” Walt concedes after a few seconds' silence, at which point Jesse finds himself pressed flat on his back against the mattress while Walt ruts into him appreciatively. “Is this what you had in mind?”

“Listen, I—oh my fucking G— _od_ , what the—” Jesse loses his train of thought at Walt's fingertips prodding _right_ where he can get at Jesse's prostate without penetration. “What I had in mind was, like, both of us actually _coming_ , you follow? It's like I've gotta spell out every—”

The pressure of Walt's fingertips retreats as quickly as it had been applied. “Seeing as I'm both the worst _and_ obtuse, maybe that's what you'll have to do,” Walt snaps, shifting both hands up to brace them at Jesse's shoulders against the mattress, making it obvious they've gone on strike.

Jesse rolls his eyes at the ceiling, although he's got his fingertips dug kind of desperately into Walt's back if he's completely honest. “Nah,” he says, surrendering to disappointed exhaustion, going completely still beneath Walt's weight. “Ain't no point to that. Not _ever_. I give up.”

Maybe Jesse's played his cards just right, because that's when Walt kisses the spot between Jesse's eyebrows like a world-champion sap. “No, _I_ give up,” he says softly, aware of the irony, breath feather-light like the progress of his lips down the bridge of Jesse's nose, before covering Jesse's mouth with his and sneaking his hand back down exactly where it belongs. “You win, son.”

“Motherfucking sh— _hhh_!” Jesse wheezes, coming like it's been wrenched from him by more force than Walt's actually exerting. “Holy hell, like _any_ time you wanna do shit for science—”

“ _Shhh_ ,” Walt reminds him, like how can this douchebag actually sound _irritated_ when he's also clearly enjoying what he's just accomplished. “The last thing we need is a complaint—”

“Oh _whatever_ , dickbag,” Jesse mutters, grinding up against Walt just the way he likes now that everything's gone slippery enough. “Funny, though, 'cause like the only complaints I hear are yours.”

Walt moaning loudly into the duvet right next to Jesse's ear is totally worth giving housekeeping another nightmare to deal with in the morning. And maybe it's the Pol Roger talking, but headache-inducing air freshener has never been more worth the risk. Jesse taps on Walt's shoulders.

“If we _do_ get that complaint from the neighbors,” he murmurs, enjoying the texture of Walt's hair as it slides through his fingers, which he combs through it on impulse, “I'm gonna blame you.”

Walt nods, breathing hard into the duvet until his pulse evens out. “I'm taking it for everything else.”

 _Not for the few mistakes that are mine_ , Jesse thinks, kissing Walt's temple, _as much as you'd like to_.


	6. Mercury

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **WARNING:** This contains brief drug use, dental-office settings, and a panic attack.

Increasingly since returning from their two-month tour of Europe, Jesse finds himself waking up to Walt feeling better—and more, what's the French-ish word, _amorous_ —than ever. Right now, he's whispering in Jesse's ear how hot it gets him when he remembers he's Jesse's first guy; he's fisting them both at that gentle, yet brutal pace only Walt can manage. It's good.

Jesse comes shaking and panting under Walt, mostly conscious by the time he's spent, clinging to Walt's neck. Blinking, he drifts sleepily while Walt comes with a muffled groan.

“Not only do I gotta wash jizz off the sheets, but your drool of the pillow, too?” Jesse mutters, yawning, rubbing Walt's back with shaky satisfaction. “ _Mmm_ yeah, baby. That's hot.”

Walt nips Jesse's jaw, a half-assed nonverbal complaint, and that's when it happens. The dull ache that's been limited for weeks to Jesse's lower-left back molar, or whatever the fuck his family dentist always called that tooth every time he had to redo the filling, _explodes_. Pain spikes the whole way up to where the joint is, under his ear; he pulls away, shaking, hand clapped over the spot.

“I didn't bite you _that_ hard,” says Walt, irritably, squinting down at him. “What's wrong?”

“Shut up, prick,” Jesse grits out, scarcely able to form words. “Not everyfuckingthing's about _you_.” Jesse works his jaw experimentally. The pain flares, so bad his eyes sting and well up.

“Does this have anything to do with your _possible toothache_ of, I don't know, a month ago?” Walt asks, sounding prickly, but Jesse meets his eyes and sees the raw concern there. It's comforting.

“Yeah, like I guess?” Jesse mutters, rolling back into Walt's offered embrace, making a disgusted noise at the sudden reminder of what a mess they've made. “It's getting worse.”

“Maybe you shouldn't come to Providence today for my check-up,” Walt suggests, pecking Jesse on the lips, peeling away to fetch the nearest thing he can use to clean them. “Stay home, rest, call around to local dentists. Most keep several emergency slots per day for cases like this.”

“You don't even know what my case _is_ ,” Jesse mumbles, burrowing pathetically into the pillow once Walt's rubbed down his chest and belly, but all _that_ gets him is a cheek's worth of the aforementioned drool. “Like unless you went to dental school while you were freezing your ass off in New Hampshire or something? Guess I wouldn't put it past you. Freak.”

“I know that neglect of deteriorating fillings can lead to abcesses and, subsequently, root canals,” Walt says grimly, and, yeah, Jesse bets the guy has had enough work done on his mouth over the years to speak from experience. Plus he remembers from Aunt Ginny that chemo fucks with your mouth about as bad as meth does, ulcers and canker sores and shit. Jesse's been relatively lucky; his friends have always bitched about it. But then, unlike the other junkies he's known, he at least _brushes_.

“Don't want none of those,” Jesse mutters, wondering why Walt leaves the bedroom instead of taking the soiled hand-towel into their bathroom. He feels too dizzy to get up and follow. “ _Fuuuck_.”

“Take this,” Walt says, coming back into the room, still totally naked and one-hundred percent owning it. He's got a couple of tiny, _tiny_ pills in one hand and a glass of water in the other. “Dilaudid left over from my stint as a hermit who, I'm afraid, did _not_ attain the credential of DMD.”

“Guess they had to get you off the other shit for some reason?” Jesse asks, sitting up, taking the proffered painkillers and drink off Walt's hands. He swallows with difficulty, finding the bitterness different enough from the Percocet he's taken to get high a few times. “You allergic to codeine?”

“Hydromorphone is stronger than oxycodone,” Walt replies, shrugging. “I needed more of a kick.”

“Imagine you passing time up in the White Mountains high as fuck,” Jesse mumbles, burrowing into the other pillow, the _dry_ one, realizing he's made an accidental pun. Walt's taken Jesse hiking up there a couple of times now, has made a point of checking them into a ski resort _way_ fancier than the shack he'd hidden in. Neither one of them is coordinated enough for skiing.

Walt leans over him, warm, nuzzling the curve of Jesse's neck. “Poor sweetheart,” he says softly.

Jesse's heart pitches into that awful, _amazing_ elevated-pulse shit, same as it always does when Walt busts out the old married-dude endearments and actually means them. “Go fucking shower.”

“Okay,” Walt says, his palm lingering between Jesse's shoulder blades a moment longer. “You rest.”

Truth is, once Walt's left and Jesse's slept off the painkillers' initial effects, Jesse feels like he ought to get up and attempt to be a productive human being. He feels dizzy, feels _high_ , but it's different from their weed habit. It's chemical, forbidden. He showers, finding his pain diminished enough to get dressed and strip the bed and wrangle a fresh set of sheets onto it. He falls asleep for another hour.

Jesse wakes to the growling of his stomach, so he scavenges the kitchen for crap he hopes won't affect his tooth. He can't remember the last time he legit ate almost a whole jar of applesauce, but this is the stuff from Whole Foods that's got, like, strawberries mixed in. Once he's not hungry anymore, it's tempting to check out in front of the TV for a while, but Walt's tasked him with calling dentists.

It takes three calls to find a place in town that can take him the next morning. Better than nothing.

By about four in the afternoon, he's done like _all_ the laundry thanks to the hyperfocus he's getting off these pills. He's running a fever, though; he uses this glass lab-grade thermometer, old-school, because Walt hates the new digital shit. The ache in his jaw is beginning to come back. 

Jesse scoops a handful of Walt's socks off the bed and wobbles over to the bureau, tugging open the top drawer. He dumps the clean socks in one side and, spotting the _I'M KIND OF A BIG DEAL_ pair that Walt has, as of yet, refused to wear, scratches his cheek. He picks up the pair of socks, rolled so neatly in comparison to how he does it, and peels them apart _just because_.

Something crinkles as the socks separate, landing on the floor with a familiar, candy-like crunch.

“No fucking way,” Jesse breathes, bending to retrieve the fallen article. The baggie looks battered, like it's been through a lot. If Walt's weird enough to hang onto ricin, then he's sure as _shit_ weird enough to hang onto what might be the last untouched teenth of Blue Sky in all of creation.

It's not that he's weird enough. It's that he's one sick, proud motherfucker. A _souvenir_.

Jesse's first thought, once his sluggish brain's worked this out, is that Walt's a fucking idiot for keeping something that could incriminate them. They _cannot_ afford to have that glass in the house, both for legal reasons and for Jesse's-goddamn-sanity reasons. He's stressed enough to clench his jaw, and fuck, _fuck_ it's so bad he's staggering over to the bed with the Blue clutched like a wound against his heart. He could flush it down the toilet, sure, but he already knows he's not going to do that. The painkillers make his skin itch. They don't even _work_ for more than a few hours. Over time, he's probably developed a way higher tolerance to opioid painkillers than Walt.

Jesse shivers, hammering the stuff to powder using the flashlight on the nightstand. Destruction of evidence and a medical emergency equal, well, necessity. They keep more hundreds on hand than is smart; he fetches a bill from one of the stacks under the bed and rolls it with shaky fingers. 

Doing lines of Blue off the nightstand feels like an act that ought to be accompanied by suicide note.

Jesse knows better than to let himself get distracted the second it kicks in. He curls up in the middle of the mattress with his eyes screwed shut, barefoot and surrounded by a ton of folded laundry. It's kind of a nice trip for a while, all swaddled in dryer-sheet-scented softness. The towels are suddenly _super interesting_. They're all unfolded by the time he's done investigating why this is.

He starts thinking about how long Walt's been gone, wondering if he's been pulled over for speeding because Walt's an asshole. He curls up again in his nest of laundry, tugging towels over himself like so many blankets. It's not that his jaw hurts, because it doesn't. It's that _everything_ hurts.

Jesse knows he can sleep some of this off, maybe, as long as he stays where he is and keeps away from anything resembling a mirror or a window. He's never seen his scars when he's like this; he's not sure he wants to. He might be sniffling into the towels a little, which defeats the whole purpose of laundry. He wakes an indeterminate, lucid-dream-laced amount of time later to something scratching his cheek.

“Would you care to explain,” says Walt, in that cold, _cold_ tone Jesse's been dreading might resurface out of the blue, and, sure enough, out of the _Blue_ , here it is. “Would you?”

Jesse sniffs and rubs under his nose, finding the skin crusty. “Not gonna do that, yo. S'yours.”

“Yes, it _was_ mine,” Walt agrees, dropping the empty baggie, which is what he'd been using to scratch Jesse's cheek, right on the pillow next to him. “Proof. A _reminder_. Now, it's gone.”

“Ain't I all the reminder you ever needed?” Jesse asks, rolling onto his back, giving Walt this sad, scared smile, because it's literally all his shattered heart can manage. If you cut open his chest, you'd probably just find crystal. Blood like streaks of chili powder, punchline to a joke. “ _Huh_?”

Walt looks disturbed for a second before pulling himself together, but he's still mad as hell. He snatches back the baggie, muttering something about needing to burn it. He comes back empty-handed and proceeds to gather up all the laundry from around Jesse and put it away. He jostles Jesse off the towels like Jesse's some kind of rag doll and re-folds every single one of them. Jesse just watches, chewing on the cuticle of his right thumb. He doesn't know if this is bad, doesn't even _know_.

Walt comes back from the bathroom and tosses a cool, damp washcloth right in Jesse's face. “I'm sleeping on the sofa till that's out of your system,” he says, furious, resigned. “And even then—”

“ _Prick_ ,” Jesse seethes into the washcloth, fists clenched. “Knew you'd lose interest sooner or...”

Walt looks like he has some kind of response to that, but he leaves the room just as Jesse decides pressing him about it is a bad idea. He tosses the washcloth on the floor, squirms around till he's got his head on the pillows, and manages to snag his iPhone off the nightstand. He's high as fuck, but he still knows how to set a digital alarm. He'll be damned if he's going to miss his dental appointment. He's a responsible adult.

In Jesse's world, responsible adults cry themselves to sleep. The living-room TV hums, disapproving.

Jesse wakes up at seven-fucking-thirty to that goddamn harp sound that's the _least_ offensive shit in his phone's pre-set offerings. He's also got a raging headache, but he's decided by the time he gets to the bathroom that he's at least not off his rocker anymore and probably okay to drive. They have two cars now, because how the hell they were going to keep functioning with one, he has no clue.

He's numb and lethargic once he's done showering, gets dressed before wandering down the hall and into the living-room doorway to see if Walt's even there. He is: on the sofa, snoring. Like half the new bottle of whisky is gone, and he's got popcorn and Chex Mix scattered on the carpet.

 _I hope you're hung-over as shit when I get home_ , Jesse thinks, grabbing the keys to their truck off the peg on the wall. He shoves his feet into the nearest pair of shoes that belong to him (which, luckily, _aren't_ the Sperrys) and doesn't bother with tying them. He yawns, wandering outside.

It occurs to him halfway down the driveway that, however FUBAR this situation is going to be for a few days, he'd better leave Walt a message explaining where he's gone. He hadn't had the chance to say he'd snagged an appointment. The last thing he wants is like fifty text notifications by the time he's done. He tells Siri to dial Walt's number as he pulls out into the street, having finally warmed to the idea of hands-free _everything_ where this creepy-yet-useful gadget is concerned.

“Hey, asshole,” Jesse says after the beep. “I'm at Harborside Dental. 8:45am appointment. Hope you slept off your binge, too, 'cause that was _way_ fucked-up last night. Unless your plan is to come at me with nothin' but apologies and, uh, whatever I want for like a solid _month_...”

Jesse trails off, reaching over to tap the manual hang-up button on the screen. After a ten-minute drive, he's almost there. A few more blocks, and he's found the place. There's plenty of parking to go around.

Once Jesse's checked in with the perky receptionist, who tells him her name is Elyse (“With an E and a Y and an S!”), it's like 8:32am and he's too nervous to do anything but flip through magazines several months out of date. He feels like he might still be feverish. He'd meant to check his temp again, but he'd clumsily dropped the thermometer in the sink after his shower. He'd left the glass-shard-and-mercury mess for Walt to deal with, assuming Walt even wakes up while he's gone.

Dr. Winters calls Jesse's fake name, shattering Jesse's reverie. He's this middle-aged black dude in seriously good shape under his scrubs. Dr. Winters looks concerned as he leads Jesse back to one of the brightly-lit exam rooms. Jesse hates climbing into the chair, but he's got no choice.

“Let's take a look at what's going on in there, Mr. Page,” says Dr. Winters, affixing the tissue-papery bib thing to Jesse with brisk efficiency. “Looks like the pain's been keeping you up at night?”

“Uh, yeah,” Jesse replies, rubbing at his eyes, realizing he hadn't even remembered to brush.

There's some kind of commotion out front in which Jesse can hear Elyse's voice rising and rising while Dr. Winters prods around in his mouth with a mirror and pick, so he focuses on the noise. When Dr. Winters tells him he's got an infection, Jesse nods. He knows the worst is coming.

“I'm afraid you _will_ need a root canal,” says Dr. Winters, and continues with a detailed explanation of the procedure. Something about all the tooth's insides being sucked out so it's dead and can't cause any more problems. With luck, Jesse won't need a crown for a couple of decades.

“So it'll be like, what, a zombie tooth?” Jesse asks hazily, frowning. “Can you get it done today?”

“As soon as I pull one of the assistants from autoclave duty, we're good to go,” says Dr. Winters.

Elyse barrels into the exam room just then, cordless phone clutched to her chest. She looks like whoever is (or _was_ ) on the line has delivered terrible news. She's gone soberingly pale.

“Is it true,” she says, scarcely keeping her breath under control, and that's when Jesse's pulse begins to escalate at about the same rate as hers must've a few minutes ago, “what your partner says? This guy, Martin, he...” She stares at Jesse. “He says you may have used methamphetamine in the last twelve hours. Scared to _death_ , it sounds like. He knows his stuff. We can't work on you like this.”

“You can't— _what_?” Jesse echoes, horrified that Walt's potentially just given them up if these guys decide calling the police is appropriate. But then something else scrabbles at the ominously buzzing edges of Jesse's memory, like Skinny Pete's going on with lurid fascination about you can actually _die_ if you go to the dentist within like twenty-four hours of using—

“It's not safe to inject you with anesthetic,” Dr. Winters clarifies calmly. “I'm not going to report you, Carl, if it's true. But I _am_ obliged to ask if you need help connecting with any resources.”

“I've _been_ to rehab,” Jesse insists, mortified, noticing that Elyse has been nervously eyeing the hallway to the point she finally whispers an apology and slinks back out. “It was a mistake, okay?” At this stage, he'd like to think a flood of relief will take over at any second, but the buzzing thing in his head is getting worse and his face is starting to tingle and his lungs are _closing off_.

“Carl?” Dr. Winters prompts, his tone gentle, one hand on Jesse's shoulder as Jesse, struggling for breath, sits up and swivels sideways in the chair. “Mr. Page, is there anything I can get you? Water?”

“Nah, man, I...” Jesse leans forward, hands partially trapped between his knees so he can prop his forehead on the sides of his thumbs. It's like the world's most fucked-up prayer, only he's not praying and _how could he have been so fucking stupid_? Forget Pete; he's read this shit somewhere on the internet. Even if he hadn't understood the scientific terminology, he'd understood that meth plus novocaine and lidocaine and shit is _fatal_.

Dr. Winters has still got his hand on Jesse's shoulder, and the dude's fingertips are digging in.

“Would you like me to tell Elyse to call Martin back?” he asks cautiously. “We can call the hospital.”

“No, shit, _not_ the hospital, that would be like...” Jesse can't afford to finish any of his sentences, because God knows what might tumble out. He gets to his feet so fast that he almost knocks some dental tools off the movable tray; Dr. Winters, genuinely startled, gets up from his chair and steps back toward the door. Jesse feels like he can't move his face properly at all now, feels like he's getting less than a third of the air he needs, and, no, standing over in this far corner of the exam room with his hands flat against the wall isn't going to solve anything. He may be freaking the fuck out, but he's just aware enough of his surroundings to catch a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye.

Dr. Winters is shifting his stance, reacting to the racket that's only just now hitting Jesse's ears.

“Sir, _sir_ , you can't just—” Elyse sounds even more alarmed than she'd been with Walt on the phone, and her voice is trailing behind footfalls on the industrial-grade-carpeted floor that Jesse would know _anywhere_. “Sir, unless you have an appointment and we've called you in—”

“We spoke on the phone about ten minutes ago,” says Walt, all hard-edged authority, and Jesse's literally in the process of peeling himself off the wall as Walt barges in. Dr. Winters makes an abortive movement to hold him off, but one glance from Walt and that shit's _done_. “I told you I was coming,” Walt continues, breathing in through his nostrils, doing that thing he does when he's totally fucking out of line and he _knows_ it, trying to dial it back down to normal-human-being levels of entitled fury. He glances from Elyse to Dr. Winters—they're flanking him in startled unease, like maybe they're afraid—almost apologetic, before meeting Jesse's eyes from across the room.

Jesse's got his arms folded across his chest, both hands clamped on his elbows. “Can't breathe.”

“I know, son,” Walt says, his tone and his expression shattering to a thousand fucking pieces like the thermometer in the sink and the meth on the nightstand and _Jesus_. Jesse can't get to him fast enough, but Walt is _faster_. “It's all right,” he says, folding Jesse against him. “Jes— _it's_ —”

“I still got the bib thing on,” Jesse mumbles into Walt's chest, right into the spot he's imagined all of the terrible things they've put behind them now live in _him_ , too. “S'gross, like my spit is all over—”

Walt is actually _kissing Jesse's hair_ , squeezing Jesse so tight that by all logic his breath should be shutting down for good. Instead, Jesse's breathing deep and ragged, lungs clear even though he's inhaling the shirt Walt had slept in that smells faintly of booze and sweat. “It's fine,” Walt says.

“It's _not fine_!” Jesse yells, and that's all it takes for him to start sobbing. “Like how do I know your ass isn't still mad and the minute we get home you're gonna start reminding me what a pathetic—”

Walt sort of collapses into Jesse at that point, no longer the one who's holding them up by sheer force of will. “You think that even matters now? You think something like that could even _possibly_ matter when we've just...dodged...” Walt kind of gets a grip, but Jesse can tell he's basically crying-but-not-crying, all stoic and shit as he rubs Jesse's back. If he's trying to get Jesse to focus, it's working.

“Thank fucking _God_ ,” Jesse stutters, because that's all anybody's getting out of him for now.

Walt doesn't even let go of Jesse as he kind of angles them both so that he can start asking reasonable-human-being questions of Dr. Winters: can they get a prescription for antibiotics, for appropriate painkillers; how many days until whatever procedure Jesse needs can be done safely? Like what's truly amazing about all of this, Jesse thinks—even though he's got his eyes screwed shut and he's getting snot everywhere on Walt's shirt and Walt's somehow still rubbing his back and nuzzling the top of his head throughout _all_ of this like it's the most normal fucking thing in the world—is that Walt's calming the dental staff, too, by demonstrating he's rational now that his worry's subsided.

“I'm deeply, deeply sorry,” Walt finally concludes, having gotten both drug-scrips and information out of him, “for having frightened you. It's just that I...it's just that _Carl_...” And there it is, Walt's measured use of tearing-up that's genuine, but also conveniently manipulative.

“I understand,” says Dr. Winters, although he sounds like he can't wait to get them out of there. “Take him home, get him started on the amoxicillin and the T-3. Make an appointment with Elyse on your way out; I need to see him about six or seven days from now. The root canal is urgent.”

“Thank you,” Walt says, and it's then he finally pries them apart and reaches for the box of tissues on the sterile countertop. He cleans Jesse's face up as best he can, handing Jesse a few extra ones, too. “Let's go?”

“Yeah,” Jesse agrees, immediately burying his face in the fresh tissues as Walt steers him out.

It feels great to just let his head loll against the back of the passenger seat once Walt's got him safely stowed there and buckled in. They stop at the first CVS Walt can find, so Jesse just dozes off as soon as Walt's pressed a soft, careful kiss to Jesse's lips and said he'll get the prescriptions filled.

Jesse wakes up to Walt parking in the driveway. Numbly, he realizes the truck is gone because it's still in the parking lot at Harborside Dental. He mumbles about somebody needing to go get it while Walt helps him out of the car, but Walt shushes him and presses the stapled-shut paper CVS bag into Jesse's hands while he gets the front door open. Jesse has no space to insist he can do anything for himself. It hurts too much to speak now that he's coming down off the last effects of the Blue. 

Walt sits Jesse down on the sofa, removes his shoes and hoodie, and wraps him in a blanket. He looks at the floor in disgust, but he isn't about to fetch the vacuum when what Jesse needs is medication. He tells Jesse he'll be right back, disappears into the kitchen, and comes back with a glass of water, what's left of the jar of applesauce, and a spoon. Jesse swallows a double dose of amoxicillin and one Tylenol-3 tab with difficulty; his throat's dry, meth-stripped, and his mouth feels like rubber.

“Drink all of it,” Walt instructs, down on his knees in front of Jesse even though he's going to get popcorn and Chex-crumbs all over his jeans. Jesse _likes_ that Walt's in jeans more often these days; the change of image born of necessity has become a genuine style choice, and he's rocking it just as hard as keeping his hair grown-in and staying clean-shaven. “Good, Jesse,” he says. “That's right.”

Jesse hands him the empty glass, wiping his mouth on the blanket. “So you're not like...leaving me?”

Walt's expression goes full-on crushed this time, like none of that shit from last night where he managed to hold it off. “Why in the world would I leave you? This relapse is my fault.”

“For keeping that shit around, uh, _yeah_ ,” Jesse blurts. “It totally is. You own that one.”

Walt gives him another chaste kiss, like the one in the car, but this one's lingering. “Lie down.”

Jesse does as he's told, bunching Walt's cologne-infused pillow under his head. “You staying?”

“I'll be right back once I've showered,” Walt says. “And cleaned up the sink. It looks like the thermometer fell and shattered at some point during the night. We can't have mercury lying around.”

“Or meth either, bitch!” Jesse calls after him, clutching his jaw in pain. “If you got any more, flush it!”

“That was the last of it!” Walt calls back, knocking around the bathroom. “Maybe the last anywhere.”

Jesse considers the possibility Walt's actually _tried_ the stuff, but will never fess up to it, and that makes him smile in spite of himself. If that's the case, he hopes Walt got the worst trip of his life from his own damn chemistry set. He turns on the TV, flips directly to the Discovery Channel, and promptly half-dozes his way through an episode of _Duck Dynasty_ that he's definitely seen before.

Walt takes forty-five minutes to shower and clean up the bathroom. He comes back in sweats and the ratty-looking Sandia National Laboratories t-shirt that Jesse has _no_ idea how he's managed to hang onto throughout everything. He helps Jesse sit up so he can insinuate himself between the arm of the sofa and Jesse's sagging form; he bunches the pillow in his lap so Jesse can lie down, tugging the blanket back up to Jesse's shoulders. Walt strokes Jesse's hair, fingers smelling like bleach and soap.

“You didn't touch the applesauce,” Walt observes, nodding to the jar and spoon on the coffee table.

“Maybe in a while,” Jesse says, and, shit, _these_ painkillers work well enough that he can talk.

“Can't let you starve,” Walt replies, already idly flipping channels. “We'll have to keep meals simple.”

Jesse lets one of his hands creep from under the blanket, drapes his arm down so he can touch Walt's shin, his calf, his ankle. “Are we gonna talk about how like maybe Dr. Winters could report us?”

“Report us for what?” Walt asks, his restless fingers now rubbing between Jesse's shoulder blades.

“For possession of illegal substances?” Jesse ventures. “I don't know how Massachusetts works.”

“For all he knows, you got it at a party,” Walt says. “I made it sound like I hadn't known where you were or what you'd been doing, only that you'd come home in condition that made me...wonder.”

“I guess this is kinda good-samaritan territory, isn't it, like...no judgment,” Jesse replies, relaxing.

“The important thing is that you let me know where you were,” Walt says. “I had time to get there.”

“Yeah, but if you hadn't gotten up and listened to the message?” Jesse asks, squeezing Walt's knee.

“I woke up as soon as you slammed the door behind you,” Walt says guiltily. “Let your call ring out.”

“And then listened to the voicemail as soon as you got the notification,” Jesse sighs. “You jackass.”

“Jesse, forgive me, I...” Walt flounders, flipping back to Discovery. “I was hung-over and furious.”

“Gotta work on this shit, Walt,” Jesse says warningly, around a yawn. “Work together or whatever.”

“I know, Jesse,” Walt replies, like saying his actual name a second ago hadn't been enough. “I know.”

“Like I mostly think we're doing okay these days, but then...” Jesse squeezes again. “Fucking ghosts.”

“You've exorcized this one thoroughly,” Walt says, catching Jesse's hand, squeezing back. “ _Too_ thoroughly.” He encircles Jesse's wrist with thumb and forefinger, massaging Jesse's palm. “No more.”

“Same for you, asshole,” Jesse insists, closing his eyes. “Not for nostalgia's sake or anything else.”

“No more,” Walt repeats, just holding Jesse's hand now like it's something fragile. “It's gone. Done.”

“Good, 'cause if like I find anything else in your goddamn socks,” Jesse says, “then _I'm_ leaving.”

“Apologies, laundry for _three_ weeks on top of my usual dish-duty, and...” Walt trailed off, gesturing with his free hand where Jesse could see it. “And what, Jesse? Name my sentence.”

“All blow jobs, all the time, baby,” Jesse replies, smirking into the pillow. “Like whenever I want.”

“Whenever you want,” Walt agrees, and in reality Jesse knows that what he's imposed is no hardship.

“Don't want us to lose this,” Jesse whispers, clinging tightly to Walt's hand. “Didn't save you to...”

“You did more than anyone in your shoes should _ever_ have done,” Walt sighs, making it clear it's one of those times when he knows he shouldn't even be sitting here. “You deserve sainthood.”

“Nah, s'too good for us,” Jesse yawns, patting the back of Walt's hand. “We're fuckin' outlaws.”

“Go to sleep,” Walt murmurs, settling Jesse's hand comfortably against his thigh. “It's the T-3.”

Jesse drifts off, dreaming of applesauce. The TV hums on, and Walt doesn't change the channel.


	7. Mirror

Jesse spends five days on Tylenol-3, weapons-grade antibiotics, and a steady diet of various berry-flavored applesauces Walt has brought home from the grocery store. He's long since been moved from the sofa to the bed, where Walt brings expertly-rolled spliffs up from the basement for them to share. Walt also brings him oatmeal or cornmeal porridge sweetened with Vermont maple syrup every morning.

The guy's annoyingly good at making breakfast—and, unfortunately, he knows it.

The only thing better than comfort food might be the regular application of Walt's mouth and hands wherever the fuck Jesse wants, as soon as he fucking asks. Somehow, sex on codeine is a hell of a lot better than on some of the other shit he's been on when he's stumbled into bed with someone. Skin tingling, delirium-flushed, and drowsy, he's pretty sure he's on about orgasm number ten by day six.

Walt's had exactly _zero_ , at least that Jesse's aware of, in the same amount of time.

"How are you feeling?" Walt asks, gently rubbing Jesse's thigh through the come-down. He wipes his mouth on the back of his free hand; he's sporting an impressive boner under the sheets, yet he's somehow entirely unselfconscious. "Well enough for your appointment this afternoon?"

"Dunno, man," Jesse yawns, shivering through another aftershock. That gets Walt pressed up flush against him like _immediately_. Jesse takes pity on Walt, fishing around between them until he gets a fistful of Walt's cock. "I know the antibiotics are working, but I kinda like this arrangement. _Mmm_ , baby. All hard for me an' stuff, huh?"

"And stuff," echoes Walt, flatly, curling his hand around Jesse's on his erection, setting a swift pace that makes his features twist appreciatively. " _Jesse_ ," he sighs, eyes sliding shut, hand falling away as Jesse works his thumb in merciless circles just beneath the head. "I'm serious."

"Yeah, bitch," Jesse retorts for old times' sake, grinning, watching Walt's mouth fall open as he comes in Jesse's palm. "Whatever. Serious about getting _off_ , anyway. I can see that."

Once he's caught his breath, Walt strokes the hair still tacky from yesterday's round of product back from Jesse's forehead. "It's extensive work," he cautions. "They'll be putting you under. It's not just a root canal. Dr. Winters said he saw some minor occlusal fillings that need to be done, too, while he was examining you last week. Three on top and four on the bottom. He told me that after what he correctly estimates to be _years_ of using, you're lucky you don't need a full set of dentures."

"Don't care," said Jesse, shrugging, wiping his hand off on the side of the mattress. The T-3 he'd taken in the early hours of morning still hasn't worn off. "Just as long as I ain't awake for it."

Walt wrinkles his nose, but he'll strip the bed later and do the laundry without a fuss. "You'll be pretty out-of-it when I bring you home," he replies. "Did they put you under general anesthesia either of the...other times I saw you in the hospital?"

Jesse's relieved Walt doesn't go there; it's enough to simply _remember_ having the shit kicked out of him by Tuco and Hank in too-quick succession, much less have to respond to articulation of said fact. What with all of the various _other_ beatings that had come after...

"Don't think so," Jesse mumbles into Walt's chest, clinging to Walt's shoulders. "Just morphine."

"Were you put under as a child?" Walt asks gently, rubbing Jesse's back to chase off chill that's gripped him. "Maybe for having your appendix or tonsils out? That would've been standard."

"Yeah, _well_. I ain't that typical, but I guess you'd know, right?" says Jesse, nauseous. "Still got my tonsils _and_ appendix. I did have this kinda nasty fall off my bike, really banged-up shins and a broken ankle. The guys in my band were like super pissed off I missed a shooting session."

"Shooting?" Walt echoes, sounding vaguely concerned. "Do you mean to tell me you—"

"Music video, yo," Jesse yawns, clapping Walt's bicep. "I had this wannabe garage deal with Badger and Paul and a couple other guys from school. We'd've been famous if we'd had Pete on keyboard, I bet. Ever see that dude play?"

"Rumors of Twathammer reached J.P. Wynne administration," Walt says, and Jesse can fell he's smirking. Smug goddamn bastard can't even keep his mouth shut after what must've been a _really_ dope hand job, judging by the way he's nuzzling Jesse's hair and cuddling the shit out of Jesse.

"Don't want none of your dumb-ass teacher's lounge gossip, man," Jesse mutters. "It's like a whole decade out of date. Besides, you're not even pronouncing it right. There are two accent marks. It's _TwaüghtHammër_."

"Oh, certainly longer than _that_ ," Walt ventures, ignoring the unnecessary dig at his diction, because, whatever, the accent marks are silent and everybody knows it. "Wouldn't it be about twelve years at this point?"

"Right now is November 2013," Jesse says, needing to talk this out given how bad pain meds fuck up his basic math skills. "I turned twenty-nine the day we flew to France back in September. Means I turned eighteen in the fall of 2002, which was like when my senior year started and everything, and I was Class of 2003, so..." He lifted his head and braced his arm across Walt's chest so he could look Walt square in the eyes, hella spooked. "You had me junior year and again for summer school 'cause I failed. Oh-one into oh-two, so..." Jesse blinked. "Eleven or twelve years."

Walt stroked Jesse's cheek. "Do you have the faintest _clue_ how much I wanted you to succeed?"

"Uh, _yeah_?" Jesse retorts, finding the question so absurd it's almost insulting. "Given the way you rode my ass all the time when we cooked, yeah, and like if I think back you were always keeping me after class for review sessions with the other slackers and calling my mom, and—" He lets the next thing tumble out of his mouth on the rush of pure codeine that's fueling it. "Oh my _God_ , Mr. White. Did you maybe have, like—a subconscious thing for me even back then? Because I can totally see you as one of those closet cases who's convinced he's all hip and experimenting during college, but before you know it you've got like a family and a mortgage and you're—"

"Trapped?" supplies Walt, deadpan. "Indulging in untoward fantasies about the football team instead of the cheerleaders?" He snorts. "Don't be ridiculous. I'm an equal-opportunity ogler. I've just never been vocal about it,” he adds, tracing Jesse's collarbone. “Till now.”

"Okay, so jocks and athletic types just ain't your deal," Jesse mumbles, licking Walt's collarbone in retaliation. "You like 'em skinny and neurotic. I get it. No need to get all defensive."

"Need I remind you what you drew on the back of one of your exams?" Walt asks. "You're saying _I'm_ the one in denial? The fact remains you had to go to the trouble to _picture_ me—"

"What, you and your nerd squad never poked fun at your least favorite professor?" Jesse counters, shifting so Walt's pinned on his back with Jesse sprawled on top. "You never, I dunno, found some kinda way to express your hate in joke equations or some shit? Think of it like that."

"I could have failed you on that assessment," Walt replies, tone deceptively mild, "but I didn't."

"Why?" Jesse licks Walt's neck, bites down hard, wants to _really_ mark him. "You got off on it?"

"You put admirable effort into the drawing," says Walt, breathy and strained, stroking Jesse's hair. "Evidence of determination, of _some_ kind of drive, is worth recognition. Are you satisfied?"

"Nah," Jesse mumbles, turning his attention on Walt's earlobe, which gets him a strangled groan. "Far as I'm concerned, you wanted my ass and didn't know it. Maybe like I kinda wanted yours."

"And didn't know it?" Walt replies, raising an eyebrow as Jesse lifts his head and licks his lips.

Jesse's not about to admit to a couple of the weirdest trips he's ever had, not about to give Walt enough fuel to tease him for however much time they've got left. "Maybe, maybe not," he says.

They fall asleep once Jesse's tired of leaving half-assed hickeys on Walt's neck. He wakes up maybe half an hour later to Walt puttering around the bedroom in a bathrobe. It takes him a few seconds to realize the dude is _dusting_ , and his beloved fancy vacuum cleaner is out. Jesse yawns.

"Were you gonna, like, wake me up with that?” he says thickly. "Just start runnin' it, no big deal?"

Walt continues his work on the top of the dresser, rubbing at that one spot he can never let go. "I was going to make sure you were conscious first," he replies. "Maybe give me a little more credit?"

He lays into _maybe_ like he's still stinging from both Jesse's bite-marks and Jesse's words.

"Whatever." Jesse yawns again, rolling out of bed. He's wobbly on his feet, but the T-3 has mostly worn off. This is all good, old-fashioned laziness, and he's down with that. He needs to piss like nobody's business, so he stumbles into the cool-tiled bathroom and takes care of that.

He's three quarters of the way through brushing his teeth before he looks up at the mirror, at what's in front of him, each first glimpse for the past couple of years as terrifying as the last. At least he can look now without crying or panicking or any of that shit, but it's still tough.

Walt's there in the reflection: standing right behind Jesse, like how hadn't he even _noticed_?

Jesse spits into the sink and rinses his brush, flinching slightly when one of Walt's fingertips traces the scar interrupting the bridge of his nose. It's fainter now, faded, but still too fucking prominent. Walt keeps offering to take Jesse to some clinic he's tracked down, best scar revision and removal in the country, but Jesse refuses. He doesn't want it there, but he doesn't want it gone. Bitter reminder.

"You'd keep me guessing even now?" Walt asks, rubbing the back of Jesse's neck, escalating the pressure like it's going to turn into one of those full-blown awesome massages he gives. "Jesse?"

 _Gonna keep you guessing till the day you die, asshole,_ Jesse thinks. _Just like you'll do to me_.

"Yeah, _Walt_ ," he replies, savoring the touch with an unabashed hum, and leaves it at that.


	8. Merlot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These guys have been avoiding the topic of homesickness, so it's time to discuss it.
> 
>  **WARNING:** Single use of the F-slur. It's still in Jesse's vocabulary, unfortunately.

Jesse would have liked to think he'd take recovering from general anesthesia like a pro given all the other shit he's shot up over the years. However, the first words out of his mouth on waking are _Shit, it hurts_ followed by a copious amount of bloody, insubstantial vomit.

Walt's right there, of course. He's brought Jesse fucking _flowers_ just like last time.

“Faggot,” Jesse mutters, squeezing his eyes shut as he flops back against the pillow. “Thanks.”

“Good to know you haven't suffered any irreversible psychological damage,” says Walt, dryly.

Jesse passes out right after noticing the flowers are Stargazer lilies like Aunt Ginny used to love.

It doesn't really matter how he gets home. He had to've been conscious again somewhere between discharge and hitting the sofa, because they don't let you out unless you prove some kind of coherence or competency. All he knows is that, when he opens his eyes, his head's only semi-navigable and half his face is fucking _throbbing_. Walt's holding an ice-pack to his jaw.

“So much for this fixing the problem or whatever,” mumbles Jesse, with difficulty. “ _Fuck_.”

“I'd suggest wine,” Walt says sheepishly, loose-tongued with relaxation, “but you're not allowed.”

 _You huge lush_ , Jesse thinks, but it'd hurt too much to articulate, so he opts for less. “Ugh.”

Walt leans so far over Jesse that he almost rolls him out of Walt's lap and onto the floor. Jesse can't figure out what Walt's doing till he's got something in his free hand. Red wine from a whisky glass.

“Less likely to spill,” Walt offers by way of explanation. “Especially when I'm otherwise occupied.”

“Classy,” Jesse agrees, unable to summon as much disgust as he'd like because Walt's coddling him.

“The...nurse? Dentist's assistant? Called you a model patient,” Walt says, swirling whatever fancy stuff he's uncorked for this sorry-ass occasion. “I told her that's been true every time, as far as I know.”

 _I wonder if you were calm when they put you under_ , Jesse thinks, tipping his head back a little further so he can squint up at Walt, returning Walt's unfocused gaze. _And when you woke up._

“I shouldn't have refused your request to visit,” says Walt, hesitantly. “After my own surgery, I mean.”

 _That is some Heisenberg-level bullshit right there_ , Jesse thinks, eyes widening slightly. _Like if Heisenberg was psychic._ He swallows, tasting diluted iron. “Your family,” he says with grudging recognition.

Walt shakes his head, as if that's an unsatisfactory answer. “ _You're_ family,” he replies.

 _Ain't gonna re-hash the million and one ways you were in denial about that_. Jesse closes his eyes and rolls onto his side, back to the television, breathing warm against Walt's button-down covered belly. “Turn it off,” he mumbles into the fabric. He ought to tease Walt stiff and leave him hanging, exact some serious revenge for Walt's not having put on some predictable, soothing DVD or Netflix.

Walt rakes a hand through Jesse's hair and finishes his wine, setting the glass back on the coffee table. He turns off whatever banal news program he'd been watching, intent on massaging Jesse's scalp.

“You'll drop more weight because you can't eat much for the next week,” he remarks. “I'm concerned.”

Jesse huffs into Walt's shirt, irritated. Yeah, he's pushing meth-head levels of skinny. He'd put Pete to shame. Badger's mom would fuss over him, practically stuffing those weird vanilla brownie things down his throat. Aunt Ginny would take him out for green chile cheeseburgers.

“Want to go home,” Jesse whispers wretchedly, each bitten-off word sending fire down his spine.

Walt sighs so heavily Jesse knows it's real. “I know,” he replies, drunkenly morose. “We can't.”

 _Nobody'd recognize you_ , Jesse thinks. _You're the Devil. Me? I'm no shapeshifter._

“On the other hand,” Walt murmurs, “you might try growing your hair out, or dyeing it, or—”

“I know you wanna see how they're doing, but you said it yourself,” Jesse grits out. “We can't.”

Walt's fingers tangle roughly in Jesse's hair before softening again. “You miss your friends.”

“Yeah,” Jesse responds, pinching Walt hard in the side. “ _Asshole_. And my family.”

Walt's quiet for almost an entire minute after that; Jesse almost drifts off. “Your brother?”

“My aunt, mostly,” Jesse admits. “But yeah. My brother, seeing as he's alive. My mom.”

“What about your father?” Walt asks, intoxicated enough to go in for the loaded question.

 _Don't you dare think that's what you were to me_ , Jesse wants to say, but it's all tangled up in how he'd like things to have been and how things actually were. _Maybe it's what we both wanted at the start, but it's definitely not what happened._ The truth's messier than that, more grotesque, lodged somewhere between what they were to each other and what they've become.

“Maybe,” he says, twisting onto his back so he can glower up at Walt. “Maybe not.”

Walt touches Jesse's face like he's not sure it's actually there, fingertips tracing scars.

“Don't understand why you did this,” he whispers. “Why you did any of it. Why you—”

“Why _me_?” Jesse cuts in, feeling the bizarre urge to laugh. “Yeah, why me for sure.”

“That's not what I meant, but,” Walt slurs, his fingers slowing to a halt. “ _But_. Fair.”

“None of it was,” Jesse replies. “Not one _bit_. Now go get my fucking happy drugs.”

“Basement or kitchen?” Walt asks, smirking, the huge jerk. “Decisions, Jesse. Choose wisely.”

“Both, _jeez_ ,” replies Jesse, smacking Walt's ass as he leaves. “And no more fucking merlot!”


	9. Miracle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I got two thematic requests: one from Porkchop_Sandwiches (jealous!Walt) and one from Milarca (Walt and Jesse in close proximity with a cat). Strangely, these disparate strands dovetailed neatly enough for this to become what I suspect is the penultimate installment. I really needed to indulge in some incidental humor, so here it is.

As far as Jesse is concerned, March in New England is _the_ shittiest excuse for a month he's ever experienced. January and February had been brutal enough, what with dumping a fuck-ton of snow on them at intervals. Walt had whined hardcore about having to shovel and salt the walk, and Jesse had pretended to be asleep on at _least_ half those mornings just to make sure Walt did his part.

March, on the other hand, will give you false hope and then yank it right out from under you.

Right now, he's shivering in a ridiculous nest of covers because Walt, hot-blooded asshole that he is, has turned the heat way down again. Also, Walt's not there. That's pissing Jesse off the most.

He half stumbles, half falls out of bed in nothing but boxers and Walt's Sandia Labs tee. It takes a few minutes of yawning and rubbing his eyes before he can get the thermostat back to normal. _Better not have snowed again last night_ , Jesse thinks, worming his way into the nearest discarded jeans and hoodie he can find. _I'll kick Mother Nature's ass, don't even care that she's a chick._

By the time he reaches the kitchen, he's stepped into Walt's L.L. Bean duck boots and thrown on his fur-trimmed parka from some Canadian company that Walt insists is way better than those trendy goose ones or whatever everybody else wears. Probably because it's way more expensive.

 _Ides of March,_ Jesse thinks, noticing in disbelief that Walt's weird science calendar next to the fridge is telling him it's already the fifteenth. _If you've frozen to death, so fucking help—_

He cuts his internal monologue short in order to fetch a can of Red Bull from the fridge, because coffee sure as hell won't cut it if Walt's slipped and needs medical assistance. Best to assume the worst.

Jesse isn't sure what shocks him most as he swings the back door open just enough to catch it with his elbow while he pops the tab on his drink: the fact that there's nothing more serious than frost dusting the dead grass, or the tableau he's witnessing _on_ said grass. He stares, sleepily intent.

Walt's crouched about an inch from the scrawny stray calico that's been haunting their doorstep since December. She's not hissing at him for once, although her tail's swishing like she isn't sure about this. Meanwhile, Walt takes her sitting-down status as encouragement, scratches behind one silky ear, and murmurs something Jesse can't catch as Walt leans forward and tries to kiss her on the nose.

“Fuckin' knew it,” Jesse says, propping the door open with his back. “You old softie.” He takes a noisy sip of his Red Bull as the cat darts off with a _mrrrow_ and Walt looks up in annoyance.

“We go to the trouble of feeding her,” says Walt, peevishly. “What's wrong with attempting to bond?”

“Yeah, but like the only kind of bonding you know _jack_ about ain't gonna help you make animal friends,” Jesse replies, smirking, but it isn't as effective as it could be given he's shivering his ass off.

“You call that toxic sludge breakfast?” Walt asks, getting to his feet, dusting off his sweat pants. He's jammed his bare feet into a pair of ratty slippers Jesse totally hates, but Jesse has to admit Walt's built up an impressive tolerance to the cold for short periods of time. “Get inside. I'll make you some. There anything particular you want?”

Pancakes and bacon _and_ eggs is way overkill, but the house is finally starting to warm up properly. Jesse decides not to put up a fuss when Walt takes the Red Bull off him and dumps it down the sink. Walt has a cup of some mango black tea, which Jesse won't admit he likes, at the ready.

“That cat probably has worms and stuff,” Jesse says around a mouthful of bacon. “Needs a vet.”

“She's not the filthiest stray I've ever seen,” Walt replies, reading between the lines to find Jesse's jab aimed squarely at the suspension of his usual fastidiousness. “And not very old, either. Year or two.”

“Never thought I'd live to see the day you'd fall for a stray fuzzball,” Jesse mumbles into his teacup.

Walt gives him that halfhearted don't-be-a-smart-ass look. “You, Jesse? _You're_ surprised?”

“Touché, man,” Jesse grumbles, messing with his hair. He's got the worst case of bed-head ever.

Breakfast is kind of a lazy affair from there on out, with Walt failing to discreetly brush his chilly toes along Jesse's under the table. Their laminate flooring is gritty, needs sweeping, but that's not gonna happen now that they're full of tea and coffee and pancakes and Walt's coaxed Jesse back to bed. Jesse's still easily manipulated, but at least he owns it.

“I don't understand how strays in this area survive subzero temperatures,” Walt says, lazy in the aftermath, trailing one finger down Jesse's spine from his nape to the small of his back.

“Somebody fucking call the press,” Jesse mumbles into the pillows. “Heisenberg's stumped.”

“Wild mammals manage it regularly,” Walt continues, ignoring Jesse. “Surprising, that's all.”

“Yo, you got plans for later?” asks Jesse, yawning, changing the subject. Fighting after he's been this thoroughly fed and loved-up would probably be bad form. “I kinda told Ray I'd shoot pool with him.”

Walt stiffens almost instantly, just like every other time in the past few months or so Jesse's made reference to his growing camaraderie with their friendly neighborhood bartender. “When's this?”

“I dunno, later?” replies Jesse, rolling onto his side so he can look Walt in the eyes. “Problem?”

“To be perfectly frank, I don't like how much time you've been spending down there,” Walt says, not really succeeding at keeping either his voice _or_ his expression level. “It's not healthy.”

“You mean like you think I'm turning into an alcoholic? _Wow_.” Jesse blurts that last bit at quarter-volume and does his best impression of Walt's disapproving face. “What're you on? Catnip?”

“You're an addictive personality, we already know that,” Walt insists. “The allowance for marijuana and occasional slips back into cigarettes are risky enough, wouldn't you say?”

“Asshole,” Jesse sighs, rolling away from him again. “Think whatever you want, but I'm going.”

“I didn't have any plans,” Walt says after a few seconds. “Guess I'll spend the rest of today alone.”

“If you're gonna be a massive grouch about it, that's probably for the best,” replies Jesse, angrily, and rolls out of bed. “Get whatever bug you caught from the cat out of your goddamn system.”

“It's a miracle she's even alive!” Walt shouts after Jesse as he flees to the shower. “But I suppose that must be too difficult for your cannabis-muddled excuse for a brain to take into account, isn't it?”

“Says the dude still dropping hemp oil like six times a day!” Jesse snarls. “Get off my ass!”

 

* * *

 

Jesse cradles his bottle of Shock Top, thinking that if the heat weren't cranked up to eleven in the Crow's Nest, the drink would feel about as cold as it is outside. He's staring at the television set suspended above the bar, not really hearing what Ray's saying. His pool game blew the big one.

“Hey, man, I hate to tell you,” Ray ventures cautiously, like Jesse might explode if he says the wrong thing, “but you didn't play so hot. All that work we've been putting in for nothin', you feel me?”

Jesse frowns as the screen transitions from a commercial to the evening news. “Don't feel anything.”

“You gotta tell me what he did,” says Ray, whistling. “That shit's better than Abuelita's telenovelas.”

“Got all pissy on me when I told him I was hangin' with you this afternoon,” Jesse sighs. “Prick.”

“Tell me something I _don't_ know,” Ray replies, clinking his bottle against Jesse's. “That all?”

“Nah,” Jesse mutters, rubbing the side of his face. “We've been talking about how we miss home.”

“Utah, you said one time,” says Ray, taking a long pull of his beer. “Seriously, you miss it out there?”

The imaginary barbed wire pulled taught in Jesse's chest threatens to snap. “We ain't from Utah,” he admits wearily, finally flicking his eyes down from the screen to Ray's face. “But somewhere close.”

“It's not like I ever planned on askin' this, but now I'm wicked curious,” Ray continues, fixing Jesse with a somber, sorry-not-sorry-bro look. “Are you guys undercover cops or spies or some shit?”

Jesse can't prevent a low, bitter laugh from escaping his throat. “Oh, we're way more interesting than that.”

Ray smirks, but there's genuine sadness behind it. “What, just a coupla homos, that last word from the horse's own mouth, on the run from the law? Did you do it in public out in SLC or somethin'?”

“We did a lot worse,” says Jesse, keeping his voice down, tired of hiding every last goddamn shred of himself from everybody. “Did it in a different city, a different world, a whole different _lifetime_.”

Ray looks almost scared for a second, but it doesn't last. He nods like maybe he already knew that.

“Your IDs are pretty tight,” he finally says. “But I got a sharp eye. Sharper than most guys I know.”

It's Jesse's turn to be scared—like, shit, if his bladder were any fuller than it is, he'd probably piss himself, but he's got better nerves than he used to have. “Sucks not being able to tell people my name.”

“No offense, dude, but you don't look like no Carl,” Ray chuckles with nervous relief, swigging down the rest of his beer. “I totally understand if you can't tell me for personal or legal reasons or whatever.”

“I can't tell you any more than I already have,” Jesse replies, hard-eyed, “and that's that. You got it?”

Ray raises both hands in mock self-defense. “As long as you ain't got a gun on you, sure, we're cool.”

“Martin says I should carry when I'm alone, but there's no way,” says Jesse, quietly. “Never again.”

“God _damn_ , you musta seen some shit,” Ray says, whistling. “I got busted for drugs once.”

Jesse takes another swallow of beer, but his heart's not in it. “That blows. Mind if I ask what it was?”

“Shrooms,” says Ray, shrugging. “Least I can do. You told me about the meth bump that got you in trouble with your dentist a few months back. Some party that musta been! Man, I have this friend from high school who moved out to Boulder. Says he knows somebody who tried the blue shit.”

Jesse feels all the color drain from his cheeks, but his bladder's still on iron lockdown. “Liar.”

“Nuh-uh, true story,” insists Ray, gesturing with his bottle. “And then it was all over the news!”

“Doubt there's any of it left,” Jesse says as dismissively as he can manage. “That was ages ago.”

“Somebody tried to sell a teenth on eBay 'bout a year ago,” says Ray. “Talk about balls of brass.”

Jesse nods slowly; he remembers Walt bringing that up, because Walt's an egotistical fuckhead with nothing better to do but scour news outlets and publications for knock-on effects. “Collectors' item.”

“I'd just look at it, for sure,” Ray decides, nodding at the tabletop. “Anything that color's gotta be worse poison than usual. I don't care how pure they say his crank was. That's the Devil's work.”

“Whose crank?” Jesse says, puzzled at first, but then his brain snaps back into long-unused-vocabulary mode and he realizes Ray isn't talking about the kind of crank you turn. “Oh. _Huh_. I don't—”

“Heisen-whatever. Some uppity German name. Whatever they called Walter White,” Ray clarifies.

“Heisenberger,” Jesse replies, deciding he might as well turn this into some black comedy before it's too late. “Like—doesn't it make you think of the Hamburglar or some shit from when we were kids?”

“Wait, it was Heisen _berg_ ,” says Ray, glancing down at his phone, scrolling. “Kinda bad-ass.”

“I've gotta piss,” Jesse says, getting up, leaving around a quarter of his beer. “Gotta get home, too.”

Ray's eyes dart up from his phone, bright with concern. “You feelin' okay? Want me to call a cab?”

“Not so drunk I can't drive,” Jesse says, bumping Ray's offered fist. “I'm serious. See you 'round?”

“Yeah, man,” Ray reassures him. “It's all cool. Maybe next weekend or somethin'? Get some sleep.”

“There'll be no sleep for me,” Jesse says, heading for the restroom, “till I let asshole adopt a stray cat.”

“Dang!” Ray shouts after him, already in fits of laughter. “You guys got in a fight about some pussy?”

Jesse flips the dude off over his shoulder, letting the door slam shut behind him, but he's smiling, too.

 

* * *

 

Walt is literally pacing in the living room when Jesse comes in the front door. Instead of livid, though, he looks wearily anxious, and Jesse can work with that. They've fought over dumber shit than this.

“Could've stayed longer, but the place was getting busy and Ray had to go back to the bar,” he lies.

“Can you at least _try_ to understand why getting close to strangers is a terrible idea?” Walt seethes, all up in Jesse's face as he sheds his boots and parka. “We have _everything_ to lose.”

“Hey, last time I checked, Ray ain't no stranger,” Jesse says, jabbing a finger into Walt's chest. “He likes Carl for _Carl_ , which is about as close as I'll ever get to someone liking me for _me_ ever again.” Walt opens his mouth, but Jesse cuts him off. “And you do _not_ count, dickbag.”

“Fine. If we're being immature, then this is the part where I tell you I took the cat to the vet. I hope you're not allergic, because once they're done fixing and bathing her, she's coming _home_. How about that?”

Jesse blinks at him, uncomprehending. “You decided to take in the cat to _get back at me_?”

“What else, what when you were clearly so jealous?” Walt demands. “It was a perfect opportunity!”

For the second time in one day, Jesse starts to laugh uncontrollably. “Oh my _God_ , do you have any idea how hard you fail at appropriate response? I give her shit out of the fridge, too, you know. Did you think this would be, like, I don't know, _what_ , some kind of hardship for me?”

“I don't...know?” stammers Walt, his eyes drifting down to Jesse's hands balled up tight in his shirt.

“That cat's cute as fuck,” Jesse informs him, letting go. “So thanks for the thoughtful gift, asshole.”

Jesse thinks that by now they ought to've laid into each other, maybe some grappling and hitting and shit, but, honestly, it's _so_ however-many-years-ago. It's 2014, they've been fugitives for a while now, and Walt seems to have survived his cancer. There's no city, no world, no _life_ in which this ends like so many of the flesh-and-blood nightmares they've put behind them.

“Hey, like I'm sorry or whatever,” Jesse murmurs, mouth almost covering Walt's. “Ray's a huge risk.”

Walt's distracted by the proximity, his prickly exterior diminished. “You're a better judge of character than you used to be,” he allows, his palms warm along both sides of Jesse's jaw. “I should trust you.”

“Don't go all sappy on me, _Je_ sus,” Jesse grumbles, closing the negligible distance for him.

They end up kissing on the sofa. Usually, they just veg out and watch TV there these days, or Walt gets drunk and eats snacks while Jesse dozes with his head in Walt's lap. Maybe it's been the medical shit, or maybe they're just getting too comfortable and that's how it fucking goes.

“You think you made _me_ jealous?” Jesse pants, lower lip stinging with an especially fierce bite from Walt, making no secret of his intent to let Walt be on the receiving end of something he'll never admit is an apology. “I made _you_ jealous. Guess I wasn't paying close enough attention.”

Walt doesn't dignify the statement with a response, tugging Jesse back down against his chest once they've got a bare minimum of clothing shed. Apparently he's in no mood to draw this out.

“I don't know what you had in mind,” he says, tone devious, “but this is hardly punishment, either.”

“Can make it punishment if you want,” Jesse counters, lashing out with his left hand to fumble at the drawer on the coffee table. “But I don't think you consider getting nailed punishment anymore.”

“Has it even occurred to you,” Walt says, looking lazily smug as Jesse slicks himself in a rush, “that I've got you precisely where I want you? Now, see, Jesse, this is what I call _plans_.”

“Yeah yeah, whatever, hate you, too,” Jesse mumbles, frantic, struggling to heft Walt's ankles over his shoulders as he squirms into position. “So like what'll you— _oh_ God, yeah—name the cat?”

Walt takes the merciless slam of Jesse's hips, unflinching. Maybe Ray's diagnosis of bad-ass is correct.

“Miracle,” he grunts, breath temptingly ragged, and, yeah, Jesse knows he's talking about them instead.


	10. Maybe

Two years is a long time to go without nightmares—not counting the fact Jesse'd had more bad dreams than usual for several months after he'd spilled his guts to Ray—but you can't get lucky forever.

She's so real he can almost touch her, but even his sleeping self knows that this is only an illusion.

 _Hey, you,_ Jane says, lighting the cigarette perched between her lips. _Long time no see._

Still, Jesse can't bring himself to speak. Maybe it's the paralysis of his prone, unconscious body seeping into the dream, rather than the other way around. He doesn't know. His eyes burn.

 _Don't worry about it_ , Jane continues, holding out the cigarette, offering him a drag. When Jesse doesn't move a muscle, she shrugs and sticks it back in her mouth. _So you're taking a trip soon?_

Jesse wants to know what the fuck that means. He wants to know _so_ goddamn badly, but the only thing he can move is his eyes. One glance around tells him they're on the duplex front porch.

 _You've got lots of time to pack_ , Jane says, flicking ash toward the mailboxes. _Walt, too._

Before Jesse can ask _What the hell are you talking about?_ , or take her in his arms to tell her he's sorry, or break down crying for the zillionth time, there's a screeching collision a few blocks away that makes his head spin. He blinks to clear his mind, but everything blurs, everything _hurts_.

 _Love ya, weirdo,_ Jane says, dropping the cigarette. _Come see me while you're here, huh?_

Jesse tries to reply, to articulate it properly— _Love you, too, you and Andrea and Mike and Wendy and Pete and Badger and everybody, like even if I sucked at saying so_ —but now he's wide awake.

He's also lying on his back with Walt sprawled half on top of him, which explains why he can't move.

“Jesse,” Walt murmurs, muddled with sleep, but genuinely concerned. “You were dreaming again.”

Jesse nods, resisting the urge to punch _this_ particular alter ego, Captain Obvious, in the face.

“Get off me, asshole,” he manages, struggling, giving Walt a weak shove. “I can't fucking breathe.”

“You were coughing,” Walt clarifies, reluctantly doing as he's told. “Sounded like you might cr—”

“I. Wanna. Go. Home,” Jesse seethes, swallowing tears. “ _Yeah_ , you heard me right. Let's pack up the car and head to New Mexico for a while. All incognito and shit, just like you said.”

Walt stares at the ceiling a while, mouth slightly agape, as if he hopes it might talk some sense into Jesse before he can no longer avoid doing so. “Do you have any idea how stupid we'd have to be?”

“Same level of dumb-ass we were to be cooking meth in the first place?” Jesse ventures hopefully.

Walt shrug-nods, turning to regard Jesse, as if he just can't argue with that. “And if we get caught?”

“You'll find a way to be the boss in prison. Like you found a way to be the boss of everything else.”

“ _Ah_. But it seems like you might be forgetting the part where _you're_ the boss now?”

Jesse takes his turn to shrug, too vulnerable to keep up the tough-guy act. He rolls over so he's sprawled fully on top of Walt, clinging to the guy with all four limbs. “You'd be my front.”

“Right,” says Walt, quietly, in a tone that's meant to be reassuring. He rubs Jesse's back to soothe the rising sobs that Jesse hasn't quite managed to stifle. “We'd do as well incarcerated as anywhere else.”

“Won't have to,” Jesse replies, pinching Walt in the side to shut him up. “Won't let you get us caught.”

 

* * *

 

After eight hours on the road and _not_ being allowed to ask where their first stop's going to be (even though it's increasingly obvious as the highway signs start to mention Canada), Jesse's too tired to protest the resort hotel Walt's picked out for them. If you're going to do Niagara Falls, which Jesse's never done before, then you at least do it right by staying in some kitschy, seedy dive motel.

At almost four hundred a night, the Seneca Niagara Resort and Casino definitely _isn't_.

One look at the suite, though, and Jesse changes his mind. You can see the Falls from their twenty-first story window, and there's a huge hot tub. It's more the latter than the former that sways him. Fleetingly, he hopes that the cat is okay with Ray.

“Hey, why's the weather so shitty?” Jesse asks, sipping some super-sugary cocktail he forgets the name of. Walt had spent some time at the poker tables downstairs, which had prompted Jesse to hang out, anxious Walt might draw attention to himself counting cards, in the hot water till his fingers were doing their best prune impression. The drink is a great consolation while Walt counts his modest winnings.

“You said you preferred to enjoy the view from inside,” replies Walt, distractedly. “Six hundred.”

“Like you fucking _need_ six hundred,” Jesse scoffs, accidentally dropping the little plastic sword with a cherry and chunks of pineapple into the tub. “Dammit. _Uh_ —want some boiled fruit?”

Irritated, Walt sets aside the money and comes to the side of the tub. Already rolling up his sleeves, he watches the jets roil and froth for a second before fishing out the skewer, maraschino cherry, and two pieces of fresh pineapple with ruthless efficiency. He goes to toss them in the trash.

Jesse dangles his arms over the side of the tub while he waits, dripping on the tile. Fussy bastard.

Walt comes back in nothing but his latest incarnation of moderately classy underwear. He strips those off, too, before climbing into the tub. Maybe he'd understood the fruit thing better than he'd let on.

Jesse doesn't necessarily want this to jump in the gutter right away, so he curls into Walt's side, sinking till he's submerged up to his chin. Feeling drowsy, he slips an arm around Walt to anchor himself.

“Can I shave till we get there?” Jesse asks, picking at the stubble on his cheek. “Long way to go.”

Walt shakes his head, rubbing Jesse's slightly-longer-than-buzzed hair. “No more than I _can't_.”

“Just 'cause you can shape-shift whenever you want doesn't mean you gotta remind me I suck at blending in,” Jesse mumbles, blowing bubbles to match the tub. He spits out the stale taste.

“Do I have any hope of enjoying this without you contaminating the water? Any whatsoever?”

“Nope. Was kinda hoping we'd contaminate the water _anyway_ , but now I'm kinda tired.”

“Don't be juvenile,” Walt chides, dragging Jesse upward until he's practically sitting in Walt's lap.

“Then don't be an asshole,” Jesse sighs, tilting his head back against Walt's shoulder while Walt teasingly thumbs his hipbones, “and we're square.” He closes his eyes. “Why Niagara Falls?”

“Calm before the storm,” Walt says, rewarding Jesse with a stroke, not that it's any real answer.

 

* * *

 

If they were in any hurry, the next leg might've taken around fifteen hours. Instead, it takes them three days and half a dozen weird landmarks to reach Omaha. Nebraska is flatter than Skinny Pete's ass.

“So this is _way_ more like it,” Jesse says, his mouth full of pie. They're in some dive of a diner called Harold's Koffee House, Inc., and Walt's already complained twice about the butchered spelling.

“I'll only forgive it because this is the best damn meringue I've ever had,” Walt says around his fork.

“Which?” Jesse asks, studying the muddy sludge left in his mug. “The bad joe or the K on the sign?”

“Both,” Walt agrees, oddly content for as hard as it's raining. “Coffee's a tough market these days.”

“Well, we could've gone to that mall on 98th Street,” Jesse says. “Google says there's a Cinnabon.”

“Dunkin' Donuts or nothing,” Walt insists, practically licking his plate. “I'm a New Englander now.”

“Oh, whatever,” Jesse says, folding his arms across his chest, yawning. “Betcha you'll want Flying Star as soon as we've crossed the New Mexico state line. Wait a sec, nah. You're more of a Satellite fan.”

“As touched as I am that you remember all the places I'd go before resorting to Starbucks,” replies Walt, dryly, checking the Calatrava that Jesse had gotten him as an early birthday present, “it's getting late. We need to think about finding a place to stay for the night.” He waves at their waitress.

Jesse's eyes rest on Walt's wrist while he counts out change onto the plastic tray holding their check.

“What were you thinking last time you drove this? When you left your watch. Besides not needing it.”

Walt shrugs, satisfied he's left enough for everything they've ordered, plus tip. “Revenge, mostly.”

“Did you know exactly how you were gonna get your hands on...” Jesse points finger-guns at Walt.

“Already had most of it by this stage,” says Walt, tersely. “Let's talk about anything else. Anything.”

Jesse nods, chewing his lip, staring out the window as lightning cuts a jagged scar across the pale sky.

 

* * *

 

They split the remaining twenty or so hours over the next three days, although Walt isn't happy about Jesse's insistence that they pace themselves. August in the Midwest is fucking miserable, and Walt won't admit that he's been sleeping poorly. He looks thinner than usual.

Jesse knows better than to let that go unaddressed. To Walt's protest, he takes over most of the driving.

The first night, they stop in a place called Grainfield, Kansas. Jesse thinks that's funny as shit, and Walt's actually too cranky to argue. Jesse wants to stay in this place he read about on both Yelp and Trip Advisor called the Tail Feather Inn, but Walt insists a small bed-and-breakfast is exactly the kind of place they want to avoid, quote, _lest the proprietors get too nosy_.

Cobblestone Inn and Suites in Quintner isn't that far away. It's comfortable enough that Jesse realizes sulking isn't worth it. The attention his decision gets him that night isn't too shabby, either. He's flat on either his back or his stomach for most of it, and he swears Walt's tongue has the best muscle memory of any part of him ( _except_ maybe his dick, but that joke's too low-hanging even for Jesse).

Walt announces the next morning that he wants to drive the next stretch, but that only lasts about three hours. Jesse insists on being fed at regular intervals, _literally_ fed, such as every time they pass a Dairy Queen and Blizzards seem like a dope idea. Walt gripes about having to spoon ice cream into his mouth _and_ Jesse's. Jesse reminds Walt what socks he's wearing, and that shuts him up.

Turns out three Blizzards in a five-hour stretch is _not_ the dopest idea Jesse's ever had. He spends the night on the bathroom floor of their La Quinta Inn room in Pueblo, Colorado feeling sick enough to lose everything he's eaten for the past week. Walt checks on him around three in the morning; Jesse feels somewhat vindicated that Walt's there when he actually _does_ throw up.

“You didn't even have anything to drink when we stopped for dinner,” Walt remarks, steadying him.

“ _You_ drank enough for two,” Jesse gags, “and here I am, puking enough for both of us. Same old.”

Day three sees Walt back behind the wheel and no more stops for frozen treats. It's just as well, because Jesse's starting to feel jittery. He's uneasy enough to purchase a pack of American Spirits while Walt's in the latest gas station bathroom, not that it was ever his usual brand or anything, but they're going to hit the outskirts of Santa Fe that night, and Jesse's starting to lose his shit.

Walt comes back to catch him smoking outside the car. Instead of chiding Jesse, he nods at the box.

“Skyler smoked that kind,” he says, gaze distant. “Maybe she still does. I imagine her relapse stuck.”

Jesse shrugs, offering the cigarette to Walt. “You stole mine sometimes. Figured what the hell, right?”

Walt takes a single, long drag and hands it back to Jesse. “I always preferred cigars. That's smooth.”

“Yeah, like Badger and Pete got these sometimes,” Jesse says, tapping the box. “I used to bum 'em.”

Crossing the New Mexico state line a couple of hours later must be cause for celebration, because, holed up in the first seedy motel of the whole damn trip, Walt lets Jesse fuck him till they're both too tired to do anything but lie there and perspire in the ill-ventilated, fan-swept darkness.

Walt fumbles around for the box, removing two cigarettes as Jesse pitches the one he's just finished.

 

* * *

 

“If I ever say cooking was the dumbest thing we've ever done, I mean ever _again_ ,” Jesse whispers, feeling dizzy because he swears he's been holding his breath ever since they got to where they are, with a rented set of golf clubs and a cart that squeaks too much for a course as fancy as this one is, “then remind me _this_ is what I should be thinking of. Definitely this.”

Walt has literally dropped his club on the green in favor of holding a set of binoculars up to his eyes.

“Well, so much for all the bragging Elliott used to do,” he comments mildly. “He can hardly swing.”

“Yo, I'm _dead serious_ ,” Jesse hisses, resting his forehead against the cart's steering wheel.

“Oh, I know you are,” replies Walt, not quite dismissively. He looks ridiculous in sunglasses and a cowboy hat, but that's what you get when your partner's concept of disguises runs to the effective, yet ridiculous. “Are you sure you don't want a look? Not even a quick peek at the other two thirds of my fucked-up nerd trio, or whatever you called it? Gretchen might make the putt if she can focus.”

“I don't even know how you knew they were going to be here!” Jesse moans. “That's hella creepy.”

“This whole enterprise is creepy,” Walt says, lowering the binoculars. “And it was _your_ idea.”

“Not back in the day it wasn't,” Jesse replies, adjusting his Isotopes baseball cap. “Not by a long shot.”

“Speaking of,” Walt continues, transfixed, “she made it. I have the feeling I wouldn't enjoy this game.”

“You're technically _playing_ it right now, so, yeah, accurate,” Jesse snaps. “Just swing already!”

Walt puts down the binoculars, letting them hang around his neck. He replaces his sunglasses, retrieves his club, and promptly whacks the fluorescent yellow ball off into the nearest water-feature.

“I'm never going to beat you out here, not that you're any great shakes yourself,” he says mockingly.

“Yeah, but I'm doing pretty good for not playing in like seven years, so whatever.” Jesse smirks.

Walt puts the club back in the bag, shoulders it with a grunt, and comes back to join Jesse in the cart. Once he's settled in the passenger side, he takes off his hat and sets a hand on Jesse's shoulder.

“I called around to several courses in the area pretending to be someone I know he golfed with regularly,” Walt admits. “This morning, while you were asleep. You'd be amazed how willingly people give up information as long as you sound convinced of your own story. That's the only secret.”

“Maybe I fucked up everything because I was never convinced,” Jesse says, chewing his lip. “Of anything.” He pulls off his sunglasses and sits back, glancing sidelong at Walt. “You had enough?”

Walt nods, lips quirking a little. “On the list of foolish things I've done, this is a minor footnote.”

“Let's get outta here,” Jesse sighs, starting up the cart. “Don't wanna hang around for your thesis.”

“It's still on deposit in the university library,” says Walt, sarcastically. “We can easily go dig it up.”

“I doubt they got anything under the name of Martin Dedham,” Jesse says. “What's he do, anyway?”

“Golf badly,” Walt replies, fetching Jesse's sunglasses from his lap, handing them to him. “That and make surprise dinner reservations for his younger, more charming other half. You heard of Gabriel's?”

“Uh, _yeah_ ,” Jesse retorts, shoving the glasses back on his face. “My parents took me there when I was like...I don't know, maybe when I graduated? My aunt went, too. Jake complained about the food being all fancy and shit. Don't order stuff with blue corn tortillas for a four-year-old.”

“Junior never cared what color his tortillas were, so long as they were corn,” Walt says, shrugging.

“So are we gonna, like, actually risk spying on your family when we get into ABQ?” Jesse asks. He can't get them back to the clubhouse soon enough to dump off this gear. He feels hot and itchy.

“To quote someone wiser than I am,” Walt says, squeezing Jesse's thigh, “maybe, maybe not.”

 

* * *

 

Full from the previous night's meal and slightly hung-over from two margarita pitchers that Jesse _swears_ must've been more tequila than anything else, they roll into the city around seven in the morning. No matter how much he's missed it, Jesse can't bring himself to do more than watch the scenery roll past over the rims of his sunglasses. They're on Central Avenue, and he feels exposed.

Walt drives past the Crossroads, probably just to be an ass about it, so Jesse glares straight ahead.

“Homesickness not all it's cracked up to be?” Walt asks, slowing to a stop at the light. “Hungry?”

“Yeah, because it sure was _my_ idea to beat morning rush hour,” Jesse mutters. “Coffee.”

The place Walt takes them is only three or four blocks away, at the corner of Central and—well, Jesse must've driven by it, hell, _walked_ by it hundreds of times, but he'd never noticed the sign that said Walter Street before. If everything in his universe is part of some sick joke to end _all_ sick jokes, then this is right up there with flat-out having survived to hear the final punch-line.

“I'll grab a table,” Jesse mutters, getting out of the car as fast as he can as soon as they've parked.

He finds one along the plate-glass windows looking out on the patio while Walt orders whatever the hell kind of stuff you order in a hipster haven like this one. Even the name, Grove Café and Market, bugs him. His sense of increasing creeped-out-ness isn't helped by the coffee Walt returns with on his first trip, followed by plates heaped with artsy French-looking sandwiches involving eggs and cheese.

“Yo, why are we really here?” Jesse demands, dumping a bunch of sugar in his coffee. “Field trip?”

“I used this as a rendezvous point for meeting with Lydia,” says Walt, very softly. “You knew that.”

“I did _not_ fucking know that!” Jesse hisses, tossing empty packets at Walt. “Dammit. Prick.”

“Eat your breakfast,” Walt says, already cutting his up, _oh_ so proper, with his knife and fork.

“Like what part of not wanting to be near Wendy's place did you not get, and now we're just...just...”

“Until you come up with a suitable plan for looking in on your family, my itinerary's what we've got.”

“Your itinerary's _always_ what we've got, W—fuck, _fuck_! What the fuck do you—”

“Carl, I'm asking you to please, _please_ calm down,” says Walt, as steadily as he can manage.

“Sure, Martin,” Jesse retorts, stuffing a forkful of egg and ham into his mouth. “Whatever you want.”

“The long drive hasn't been easy on you,” continues Walt, back on an even keel. “You need to eat.”

Jesse chews and swallows, chews and swallows, repeats. Breathes through his nose, nods at his plate.

“Why this place?” he asks once he thinks he can look at Walt again without choking. “Old favorite?”

“No,” Walt replies, taking a long sip of his coffee, maybe for effect. “I could never afford it before.”

“Before now, or before the money started coming in, or...” Jesse pieces it together. “Not the kind of place your family could afford, but you sure dreamed about it, didn't you. The life, capital L. I get it.”

“Can you turn back any easier than I can? Now that you have it, I mean?” Walt asks, much too candid.

Jesse knows he's tearing through his breakfast not because he's starving, but because it's _great_.

“Bet psycho-bitch picked it the first time,” he says. And then: “Nope. After everything, I deserve it.”

“She did, but I wasn't about to say no,” Walt confirms, reaching for Jesse's hand. “And yes, you do.”

“Like in the you-owe-me way, not the I-fucked-up-so-just-desserts way,” Jesse confirms, trying to sound confident, but realizing he's stuck in some insecure backslide vortex he hadn't foreseen.

“Like the latter,” Walt confirms, stroking the back of Jesse's hand. And then, softer: “Jesse, yes.”

He's not going to ask how Walt got them reservations someplace in Old Town that doesn't immediately ask to see IDs, doesn't ask any questions at all, just hands over room keys with scarcely a word required from Walt before they're on their way. It isn't even ten in the morning, and instead of thinking about the next people he'd like to creep on or the next stop on his victory tour, Walt's stripping Jesse and bundling him into a hot shower in their rented casita that's big enough for several people to fit in.

“We're going to sleep this off, this whatever-it-is,” Walt says in Jesse's ear, scrubbing Jesse's hair while Jesse leans into him limp and shaky and exhausted, “like some kind of bad dream. Remember?”

“Yeah,” Jesse says, breathing in a lungful of steam, not quite wishing it were smoke. “Walt. Yeah.”

 

* * *

 

“You're sure you don't want to see them?” Jesse asks, eyes glued to the binoculars. “Like not at all?”

“I'm staying back here,” says Walt, muffled under a couple of blankets on the back seat. “Your idea.”

Jesse nods slowly, watching his mom do the most boring round of yard-work ever. “Damn straight.”

“You could at least make this interesting and describe to me what you're seeing,” says Walt, petulantly.

“My mom's got this big-ass rake,” Jesse says flatly. “Like one of those green ones from Home Depot.”

“There can't be that much in the way of leaves to clean up just yet,” Walt says. “It isn't quite September.”

“Nah, but my parents have always been pretty anal about yard work,” Jesse explains, startled to see his mother look up, seeming for an instant to stare straight at him. “She's clearing the weeds she's pulled.”

“Any sign of your father or your brother?” Walt asks. “How long do you want to watch landscaping?”

Jesse can't help but feel sorry for his mom, can't help but wonder if her hair's always been as grey as it looks now. When had she stopped coloring it? How long had she _been_ coloring it, anyway?

“Till she's done,” he insists. “And no, I haven't seen either of 'em. They might not even be home.”

“Is there anything they do on Saturday afternoons?” Walt asks. “Someplace we might find them?”

“Unlike you, Walt, I don't have part of my brain devoted to tracking super detailed shit,” Jesse retorts. He lowers the binoculars, folding his arms across his chest, realizing that, from this distance, his mother might as well be anyone. “Glad they aren't around, if you want to know the truth.”

“How does she look?” Walt asks, an apparent non-sequitur. “Relaxed? Pensive? Tired? Busy?”

Jesse sighs, raising the binoculars. He adjusts the focus until all he can see is his mother's face in profile: brow knit in concentration as she works, crow-footed eyes fixed unblinking on the grass.

“She looks old,” Jesse admits, gripping the steering wheel with his free hand. “Too old to be alone.”

“She's not,” Walt replies, an attempt at reassurance. “She's got your father and Jake to look out for.”

“Sure,” Jesse says, tossing the binoculars over his shoulder, “but who's looking out for _her_?”

 

* * *

 

The next morning, back at Casas de Sueños—where they totally have another hot tub, which is keeping Jesse happier than every other part of this trip was _meant_ to—Jesse wakes up to find Walt's worked his voodoo again using the internet and public directories and God knows what else.

Fully dressed, and pretty sharply, too, he sits down on the edge of the bed and puts a piece of paper in Jesse's hand. It's their dinner receipt from yesterday with something jotted on the back. An address.

“What is this?” Jesse asks, yawning, slow to catch on. “It's way the fuck out in Rio Rancho, almost.”

Walt taps the thin paper against Jesse's palm. “This is where your old friends, my former business associates, are currently living. That is, if you're even interested. I'd understand if you wanted—”

“You found Pete and Badge?” Jesse asks, squirming past Walt to get up. “They didn't skip town?”

“They seem to have decided on a change of career after I parted ways with them,” Walt explains.

“Like what's that mean?” Jesse asks, shedding his by now almost threadbare Against Me! t-shirt in favor of something with buttons and a collar. The whole look he's been sporting out here, sunglasses and various baseball caps with clothes that are otherwise kind of dressy, is ridiculous.

“The musically-inclined one has been giving private piano lessons,” says Walt. “Not that they need the income. Brandon has had a tougher time holding down work. He reviews video games on his blog.”

“Man, neither one of those dudes can spell to save their lives, so...” Jesse whistles at the thought of Badger typing more than one coherent paragraph at a time. “Yeah, I guess that's worth seeing,” he says, not about to admit that his heart's kind of just skipped a beat out of sheer joy.

Rio Rancho is still a boring swath of suburbia with not much going on, except this whole weird Pokémon GO phenomenon has _really_ taken off there. Walt says it's because there's literally a PokéStop every five or ten feet, whereas UNM and Central Avenue have cornered the market on that shit downtown. Jesse yawns and leans against the passenger-side window as Walt drives; Walt's habit of keeping up with nerdy tech has never extended to anything fun, so now this game is ruined.

They don't even have to drive into the development and try to decide how far away to park in the street. Jesse spots Pete and Badger before Walt can turn in the entrance, tripping along with their phones out like the massive dorks they are. He points over his shoulder as Walt rolls to a stop.

“They're just gonna keep walking this way because they're catching tons,” Jesse sighs. “Maybe let's head for the park up ahead, ditch the car in the lot, and see if that's where they're going?”

“I'd rather not stay out in the open for an extended period,” Walt says, “but let's sit in the lot with the windows down. They never were the quietest young men I ever met, so you'll be able to hear them.”

It takes twenty minutes for those jokers to walk the two remaining blocks to the park. By then, Walt's engrossed in a book and Jesse's hanging out the passenger-side window smoking cigarette after cigarette, pushing his sunglasses back up the bridge of his nose every five seconds. You'd think the scar would help, but it doesn't. He's almost dozing when he finally hears the predicted racket.

“No way!” Badger shrieks. “That's cheating! You're only level twenty-one 'cause you keep buying lures and incense and lucky eggs! At least I've _earned_ my shit! Oh _dude_ , look out—”

“Another fuckin' Rattata at twelve o'clock,” says Skinny Pete. “Already on it. Eat my stardust, bitch!”

“All I want is a Pikachu, man,” whines Badger, despairingly. “Why has everybody got one but me?”

Jesse adjusts the rear-view mirror as they amble within range, his pulse pounding. They don't even look any different, and it shouldn't shock him as much as it does that they've pooled their resources and probably set up the kind of kickin' party pad that drives the neighbors to drink.

“Are you hearing this?” he whispers, glancing sidelong at Walt. “Maybe you should go talk to 'em about, like, I dunno, optimizing their chances of catching electric yellow rats or something.”

“I'm listening,” says Walt, mildly, although Jesse knows his patience is already shot. “Riveted.”

“Shut the hell up,” Jesse sighs, turning his attention back to the mirror. Both of his friends are engrossed in capturing separate targets. Badger snags his first, breaking into a victory dance.

“Who's eating whose stardust, yo?” he asks, poking Pete hard in the shoulder, which causes Pete to swear and, from the look of things, lose whatever virtual monster he'd been pursuing. “Hey, is Becca coming over for dinner?”

Pete checks to make sure his app's still on and shoves his phone in his back pocket. “Uh, nah,” he says, rubbing the side of his face distractedly while Badger, concerned, watches him. “Didn't work out.”

“C'mon, dude! You gotta hold onto these chicks for once!” Badger protests. “I _liked_ this one!”

“Yeah, and I gotta teach kids how to do their scales and get ready for recitals,” Pete reminds Badger, clapping him on both shoulders. “And look out for your ass, remember? I can't have you in rehab like every couple months. We're getting' to the point where it ain't cool no more, you feel me?”

“Yeah,” Badger sighs dejectedly, patting the backs of Pete's hands before shoving them off. “I feel.”

Jesse pitches his cigarette butt, pulls his arm inside the car, and rolls up the window. His vision blurs.

“Think I've seen enough now,” he says, swallowing thickly. “They got shit to do. Where's my phone?”

 

* * *

 

Kaylee Ehrmantraut is a teenager now. Intellectually, sure, Jesse had known that, but it doesn't prepare him for the fact that she's like nearly two feet taller than when he'd last seen her and that she looks shockingly like her grandfather in the eyes and forehead. She's sitting on the curb in front of her middle school, maybe waiting for someone, eyes fixed on an open textbook in her lap.

Jesse would know that look of fierce, determined concentration anywhere. He's glad Walt's not along for this ride, because it's something he'd rather do without a reminder of why Kaylee is haunted, too.

Mike has been a constant presence in Jesse's dreams, although not in the worst of them. He rarely says a word, but Jesse doesn't mind; usually he finds himself sitting beside Mike as they watch the sun set over the Rio Grande. He remembers Mike saying one time that he has no fucking clue why the Rio Grande is called what it's called. It's a glorified creek from any standpoint _but_ an aerial view.

Jesse has stationed himself in the farthest parking lot he can find. He's grudgingly thankful for the expensive binoculars, because there's no way he'd chance getting close enough to look in on the kid.

Kaylee doesn't seem to notice at first that there's someone standing behind her. Jesse gets so distracted studying the sneakers and camouflage cargo pants that their owner sitting down beside Kaylee and coming into full view takes him by surprise. The boy's maybe a year or two younger than Kaylee, but he makes up for it in height. Dark skin, even darker hair and eyes. He seems gentle, serious, and sad.

Transfixed, Jesse watches Kaylee's face brighten like the desert sky at sunset. _Hi_ , she mouths, and then, in a turn Jesse wouldn't have caught if he hadn't gotten even moderately good at reading lips out of sheer boredom and necessity, a one-syllable name that's shaped an awful lot like _Brock_.

Of course this shit's going to happen, whether it's what he thinks he's seeing or not. He's going to spot ghosts in every forbidden interaction he seeks on this fucking trip, outlaw-voyeur that he's become.

Jesse can't watch them for very long. There are any number of kids in this city with that name, any number of schools in which Brock might have ended up once his grandmother got custody. Still, there's something about the way the boy carries himself that's too familiar, hits too close.

 _Wanna go_ mouths the boy who might or might not be Brock, and then, turning toward Kaylee's ear, says something Jesse can't catch. In response, Kaylee lights up again, this time with laughter.

Walt's asleep when Jesse gets back to the casita. He hopes he's cried himself out this time, because the last thing he wants right now is Walt fussing over him. He strips down and fires up the hot tub—which is an actual Jacuzzi, now that he bothers to look at the branding. He zones out for a while, submerged except for his nose and the top half of his head. He imagines the tub's a cauldron boiling him to bone.

Jesse startles awake, unsure how much time has passed, when Walt carefully tilts his chin above water.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” asks Walt, just petting Jesse's wet hair, calm and unhurried.

“Mmmhm,” Jesse replies, too exhausted to feel much, but his smile isn't forced. “I think maybe I did.”

 

* * *

 

Over the next forty-eight hours, they don't venture out. Walt insists on ordering food in, which doesn't bother Jesse as long as there's always something he likes and the hot tub is working. Walt's being secretive about something, constantly on his phone and his laptop and making directory assistance calls like they're going out of style. Jesse has an inkling what he's up to, and he can tell it's not working.

On day two of being total shut-ins, Jesse drops some sashimi in the hot tub just to see what'll happen. The fish does end up looking like it's cooked a little, but Walt isn't as amused as when it was just fruit.

“Do you have anything better to do than drop food in our best relaxation spot?” demands Walt, tetchily.

“Jesus, chill out,” Jesse sighs, scooping the piece of salmon out of the water, flinging it down on the tile floor. Before Walt can bitch at him for that, too, Jesse pushes off the side of the tub and swim-floats his way over to where the dude's sitting. He's grouchy as fuck, but Jesse pulls Walt's phone out of his hand and throws that on the floor, too. Good thing there's a case on it, because the glass would've shattered.

Walt must be too tired for a genuine fight, because he lets Jesse settle in his lap like that's just what he wants. Maybe it is; hell, he's done weirder stuff just to get Jesse to fuck him. He rubs Jesse's back.

“I can't find my family,” he admits. “There's no sign of Skyler and the kids. Marie's vanished, too.”

“Well, we're on a fuckin' road trip, aren't we?” Jesse asks. “Let's just keep going. Where do you think they'd go? You know them better than I ever did. Your ex-wife and her sister are kinda...intense.”

Walt doesn't take offense at the designation of _ex_ , not least because he'd theorized a couple of years back that Skyler had surely accomplished an annulment in light of his disappearance.

“There's no point,” Walt says, at this stage swigging sake right from the bottle. “They got away, too.”

“Yeah, so,” Jesse continues, picking up the thread, “we _all_ got away. I've decided we should keep it like that, you know? Every time I get a glimpse of what they're doing, part of me feels worse.”

“Doesn't it reassure you even a little?” Walt asks, slightly thick-tongued with the alcohol. “I mean—that those we've left behind are getting along better without us, as well they should?”

“Ninety-nine percent of _anyone_ would get along better without _you_ ,” Jesse tells him, leaning in for a kiss. It's fucked-up this kind of thing even counts as pillow talk. “My family's better off without me, but there are people I could've helped. The kids, maybe. Kaylee and Brock.”

“You could have,” Walt allows, leaning into the contact like it's better than hot water. “But you didn't.”

“I'm not justifying my decisions anymore,” Jesse tells him, fumbling around for the _OFF_ switch.

Making a damp mess of the bed doesn't need justification, either. Walt is pliant under Jesse's touch, not really in any shape to get seriously turned-on, but still enjoying himself. Jesse pushes the pillows around so he can get Walt settled up against the headboard where he wants him.

“So we won't go looking for them,” he says, removing Walt's glasses, setting them aside on the nightstand. The intentional echo isn't lost on Walt, who's watching carefully for what comes next.

“Then where _will_ we go?” Walt asks, pulling Jesse in closer by the small of his back. “Home?”

“How about north?” Jesse asks, pleasantly dizzy from having stolen the last couple swigs of sake. “Portland, Vancouver, whatever the hell's between Vancouver and Alaska. The cold's growing on me.”

“Wouldn't have to be as careful,” Walt slurs, prompting Jesse to move against him. “That's attractive.”

“I'm attractive, or not being careful's attractive?” Jesse asks, eyes closed, letting Walt do all the work.

 

* * *

 

Jesse wakes up feeling well-rested for more reasons than just twelve hours of sleep, but he can't hang onto the sense of contentment he'd just started to win back. There's a promise he hasn't kept, and he can't let them skip town until he makes good.

He's not sure how to approach the issue, either.

“You're tossing and turning so much something _has_ to be wrong,” Walt sighs. “I'm awake.”

“I wanna swing by the old apartment before we go,” Jesse blurts. “The duplex. See if it's changed.”

“If one of the university slum-lords doesn't own it by now, I'd be completely shocked,” Walt yawns.

“Still,” Jesse insists, willing to let Walt finish whatever this neck-kissing shit's leading up to as long as he gets what he wants out of the rest of the day. “It's the last thing on my list. Non-negotiable.”

Walt pauses where he is, taking a slow, deep breath before his teeth catch at Jesse's throat. “Okay.”

Breakfast is more like lunch by the time they get around to having it. Jesse remembers this place on Harvard Street that Jane used to like, Winning Coffee, that's bound to get a lot of eye-rolls from Walt due to the hippy-dippy décor and weird, laid-back vibe. Jesse's glad some of the outside tables are free, because eating and smoking at the same time is something he also feels obliged to do.

“There are some really interesting books in there on the swap shelf,” Walt comments, irritatingly cheerful about it as he returns with two black coffees in oversized mugs. “They'll bring the food.”

“I know how it works,” says Jesse, flicking ash everywhere _but_ in the tray. “I was, like, a semi-regular back in the day. I've been jonesing for the carne adovada here like nobody's business.”

“Well, some of that comes on your eggs, so your craving ought to be satisfied,” Walt replies inanely.

Jesse would like to think it feels almost normal, sitting in his former neighborhood and eating long-lost comfort food, but the perpetual hat-and-sunglasses routine is exhausting. Walt's chattering about the best way to get them from there to Oregon.

Jesse kind of just wants him to shut up and eat already.

On their meandering way toward Jesse's old street, which should only take about ten minutes or so, Walt gets distracted by an overstuffed poster shop. Maybe being in the so-called student ghetto has him nostalgic for grad school or something, Jesse doesn't even know, so he informs Walt he's going outside for a smoke and tells him to have fun getting covered in dust.

The second he's back in the sunlight, Jesse takes off his sunglasses and shoves them in his back pocket. There's not much he can do about the hat, but at least it keeps the sun off his face. At a brisk pace, he's on Terrace Street within five minutes. He pauses to text Walt the address, because he'll be damned if he's going back to risk Walt roping him into carrying any stupid, hemp-oil-induced purchases.

The red-tiled roof looks pretty much the same, as does the paint job, but there's now a sign that reads _UNMRENTALS.COM APARTMENTS, STUDIO 1 & 2 BEDROOM, 843-7632_ towering above the mailboxes. As usual, Walt's partly right. Jesse squints up at it until a faint whiff of smoke, eerily familiar, hits his nostrils. His eyes flick down to Jane's porch of their own volition.

There's a girl in flip-flops, jeans, and a collared shirt sitting on the bottom steps. She's smoking, watching him with intent blue eyes that seem brighter than they ought to in contrast with the way her short copper hair catches the sun. Her eyes narrow when Jesse waves, and then widen.

“Hey,” Jesse says, gesturing at both front doors, not wanting to be too specific. “Do you live here?”

“No,” says the girl, and it suddenly occurs to Jesse she might be older than she looks. She's flat-chested, holds her posture like somebody who's used to sitting in one of those chairs that does it for you, and looks sort of uneasy. “I live around the corner. A minute or two that way. Why?”

“You know who lives here now?” Jesse asks, watching her confusion increase as she gets to her feet and wanders closer to him, studying his face. “I, uh—I used to know somebody who lived here, so—”

“You remind me of somebody I saw once,” says the redhead, tone oddly distant. Something beyond Jesse's shoulder catches her eye, which prompts Jesse to turn. _That's_ when shit goes haywire.

Walt's maybe ten yards away, ambling along the sidewalk like he's enjoying the residential scenery.

The girl pitches her cigarette butt, which is all but scorching her fingertips. With unsteady hands, she fumbles the pack out of her back pocket and struggles to get a fresh one lit. “I've got to go,” she says.

Jesse notices that Walt, observing the exchange warily from across the distance, has stopped in his tracks.

Jesse pulls out the spare cigarette he'd stashed behind his ear during breakfast. He's got to do something about this before Walt intervenes, got to make sure this isn't the danger he thinks it is. “Sure,” he says, making sure she can see the cigarette in his hand, “but do you mind if I borrow—?”

Hesitantly, the girl gives a curt nod. She takes a halting step closer to him, igniting her pale blue Bic.

“Don't tell anyone?” Jesse murmurs as he leans in for a light. “I know I can't stop you, but—please?”

Tersely, the redhead nods, taking a drag on her cigarette. She offers a single word of advice: “Leave.”


	11. Epilogue (Maybe Not)

Jesse rubs his forehead, staring through the dust-speckled windshield at what he can see of the darkened sky. After that encounter with the girl who may or may not have recognized them, they'd hightailed it back to Casas de Sueños, packed their shit in record time, and hit the road by noon.

“Do you think she meant like she saw my face on TV?” Jesse had asked Walt, shoving their bags into the trunk, slamming it shut with more force than necessary. “Maybe I just reminded her of an ex or something, and she wanted me to go away. Don't look at me like that! I'm fucking _scared_.”

“No, it's just...” Walt had made one of his useless, irrelevant hand-gestures like he tended to make in situations too overwhelming for him to even show something resembling emotion. “ _She_?”

“Jesus, never mind,” Jesse had sighed, making sure Walt hadn't positioned any of his more fragile purchases unwisely in the back seat. “I guess you were far enough away that it would've been hard to tell—” He stops himself, thinking of Paz out of the blue. “That's not what matters here, okay?”

Walt had shrugged, getting into the passenger side while Jesse repositioned some of the bags and parcels in the back. “The situation's too ambiguous to decipher, if you ask me. It was probably nothing, but better safe than sorry. Maybe it was a gang thing? She might've thought you were moving in on her turf.” He glanced over his shoulder, tensely tracking Jesse's movements. “I don't want any of those pieces to break. I've got specific places in mind for them on the living room shelves.”

Walt had spent a few seconds rustling through some of the bags in the back seat, at least the ones he could reach, taking inventory of the pottery and other ornamental crap that Jesse just _knew_ was going to make their place feel a little more like Walt's house on Negra Arroyo Lane. He hadn't bargained for Walt attempting to bring home as much pricey Southwest swag as possible, but he really shouldn't have been surprised. Walt had always taken a kind of fussy pride in his surroundings.

“Sure, 'cause people who look like that make _great_ gang leaders,” Jesse had retorted, slamming the door shut, realizing only too late the ludicrousness of his statement. Why somebody who looked like Walt had made such a terrifying criminal mastermind was precisely _because_ he'd looked the way he had. If the redhead _was_ in charge of something shady, they were probably good at it.

Six hours on, with Jesse behind the wheel, they haven't even stopped to eat. Walt's fast asleep in the passenger seat, too zonked to appreciate the fire-streaked, purplish dusk. He'd never appreciated the scenery as much as Jesse had, not even when they used to cook in the middle of nowhere.

Jesse checks the GPS on his phone, whose flat-toned running commentary hasn't affected Walt's state in the slightest. Several road signs for Diné College remind him that they're crossing reservation lands, that Shiprock isn't too far away. They're approaching the borders with Colorado and Utah (funny as hell, to think they'll actually be passing through the latter) at Four Corners, Oregon-bound, and Jesse feels a sudden, overwhelming, irrational stab of panic. What if his home state won't let him leave?

The worst part about this trip hasn't been the disguises, or even having to move from place to place more quickly than they'd like. It's been the memories, hands down, and those will follow no matter what music you blare, or how many Blizzards you cram in a twenty-four hour period, or where you crash for the night. No amount of sex, alcohol, or hot-tub soaks can banish that kind of ghost.

Jesse wonders if whoever's living in Aunt Ginny's house can hear a drag- _thump_ up the staircase after dark. The bathroom floor caving in, the awful groan and give of it, would surely be enough to wake even the soundest of sleepers. And for all the horror of the first two phenomena, he still imagines that the bike lock he left in the cellar makes the most persistent, chilling racket of all.

Shuddering, he follows the signs for Shiprock until they're as close to the rock formation as they can get. Walt's still asleep when Jesse kills the engine and gets out of the car, which is okay, because Jesse isn't really in the mood to talk about anything, not even the gorgeous sky or Tsé Bit'a'í, Navajo words for the place that he'd spotted on one of the signs, silhouetted imposingly against it. 

Jesse thinks of a familiar, deserted location much like this one as he props himself against the side of the car, lighting a cigarette. This memory does _not_ rise unbidden. If there's a curse on him, if place-names breathe life and cast irrevocable spells, then he might as well summon another.

They can get away with traveling to Portland if they're careful. He's been scanning every radio station within reach, checking the news on his phone, literally _anything_ he can do to see whether they've been reported or not. He's so jittery he can't enjoy the landscape in his mind _or_ the one that's before him, and that's when one of the Google search results on _manhunt_ catches his eye.

There's been a prison break somewhere in Canada, two guys on the loose with a hijacked supply truck.

Jesse traces the outline of Shiprock against the clouds, drawing in another deep lungful of smoke. He imagines what Vancouver must look like outside of online photographs, imagines what the food in all those five-star Asian fusion restaurants Walt had been looking forward to must taste like. Imagining Alaska is harder, even more so because Jesse knows he may never reach it. He bends over, snuffing out his cigarette in the sand, blinking back tears. It isn't so dark that he can't make out the gravelly texture of the ground, the sparse grass, the hint of movement to his right.

It's just one of those big-ass millipedes, but he's instantly reminded of the last time he'd seen one. Jesse runs his finger along its back once it's close enough for him to reach—shivering, transfixed.

They don't belong anymore, don't belong in any of the places they've committed the worst of their crimes. To'hajiilee might as well have been yesterday, might as well have been _here_. The cactus, rocks, and sand will remember the things Walt drove them to do long, long after they've left for good. He carves out a small, shallow grave with the heel of his Sperry, laying the cigarette butt to rest in it.

“Sorry for all of this, man,” Jesse tells the millipede, although he's really just talking to the ground and the sky and any other damn part of the landscape that will listen. _I'm sorry for coming back._

For a moment, he contemplates heading south instead of north. He wonders what would happen if they headed to Mexico, forget the fact that he's said he's never going back. He might remember the way to Dr. Goodman's headquarters. Would they find Paz and Joaquín dutifully assisting their employer in some other clandestine, unfortunate surgery, or would they find the place desolate, abandoned?

For all Jesse knows, they might be dead, too, shot in the line of duty, haunting an empty warehouse.

He loses track of how long he's crouched there watching the arthropod—he's read too many of Walt's field guides over the years now to mistakenly classify it as an insect—until soft, static-laced noise from inside the car breaks whatever spell this reminder of their escape holds over him.

Walt is awake and restless, flipping through radio stations, undoubtedly listening to the evening news.

Jesse opens the driver's side door and slides back into the seat, thumbing the ash-flecked corner of his mouth. He exchanges wary glances with Walt as the woman on the air mentions what's happening north of the border, handing Walt a cigarette and his lighter because he can't think of what else to do. They stare straight ahead for a while afterward, watching stars emerge against the cool, inky blackness.

Wanting to visit Alaska more than anything isn't a great excuse to go there, not if security along the border with Canada is going to be jacked up on steroids. Jesse can't for the life of him figure out how to say that. He fears disappointing Walt as much as he fears disappointing himself.

“We can make it to Portland in fourteen hours,” Jesse says. “Stay there a week or so, then head home.”

“I was thinking,” Walt says slowly, lighting the cigarette, taking a drag on it, “that maybe we shouldn't risk the trip north. I don't like our chances with Border Control under these circumstances, do you?”

“That means we shouldn't risk flying for a while, right?” Jesse asks, feeling his lungs constrict in a way that has nothing to do with secondhand smoke. “At least not when we know somebody's on the run.”

Walt fixes Jesse with a sad, resolute look. He takes his time finishing the cigarette, pitching the butt out the window once it's burnt to the quick. Now they've both left last pieces of themselves here, buried and unburied alike. Ashes to dust red as dried blood; dust like dried blood to the wind.

Jesse isn't sure why they sit for a while longer like that, not speaking, just listening to some podunk oldies station with their fingers laced together below the gear-shift. They need to get out of the state before they find a place to spend the night, and they also need to think strategy for Portland. Walt is never satisfied without a plan.

He waits until Walt's asleep to start up the engine, getting them off the scrubby track and back onto the road. As he changes the radio station, _Stand by Me_ becomes _A Horse With No Name_.

Tempted to sing along, Jesse accelerates to fifteen miles above the posted limit and doesn't look back.


End file.
